


Sviksu

by anon-j-anon (Anon)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, F/M, M/M, Slavery, Vulcan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon/pseuds/anon-j-anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a Vulcan by the name of S'chn T'gai Spock.  His name is infamous in our history.  An adaptation of Verdi's opera Aida.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

There was a Vulcan by the name of S’chn T’gai Spock. His name is infamous in our history.

He was the best of our Ang’jmizn. In his many campaigns for Vulcan, Ang’jmizn Spock expanded our territories and enhanced our security. He brought countless star systems under our control, reaching from the Klingon to the Cardassian Empires. While he served Vulcan, we could not be stopped. Ang’jmizn Spock swept through the galaxy, clearing the way for Vulcans to take whatever we so pleased. Our society reached its very pinnacle, the Golden Age of conquest, when he lived and fought. Ang’jmizn Spock was a brilliant tactician, unequaled in his skill and vision, trained for warfare from the beginning of his conception. He was engineered by the scientists of the Academy, a Vulcan mixed with Terran features to produce the perfect instrument of destruction.

When he lived he was honored and revered above all others.

Today among Vulcans, S’chn T’gai Spock is known as sviksu, traitor. He died in samek-yontaya. He died the death of a traitor.

I am T’Pris, daughter of High Councilor T’Pring and Ang’jmizn Stonn. My mother knew Ang’jmizn Spock well. They were once betrothed. It was said that their fates were written together, and the priests decreed that their union would bring everlasting prosperity to Vulcan.

My mother bid me write this account of the last days of Ang’jmizn Spock’s life, when he fell from dazzling heights and gave up his great power for the memory of a Terran slave. She recounted this tale to me before her death, as she prepared her katra to take its final resting place in the Ark. I do not report this account as it was related to me, but have taken certain liberties with the narrative. Her telling of Ang’jmizn Spock’s story—one that is whispered among Vulcans and has passed into heretical legend—led me to research further into the events surrounding his execution. The Terran speech and intimations of Terran thought presented here has been extensively revised and proofread by a Terran, for the sake of authenticity.

Do not be mistaken. Research falls short of the reality lost. In particular, I know nothing of the last moments of Ang’jmizn Spock’s life. Before he faced the Interrogators, the bond between Ang’jmizn Spock and my mother was severed. The entirety of that last scene is fabricated. This tale is one of fiction, woven with truth, entwined with polemic, culminated by plot.

However, there are facts. We Vulcans are thorough, rigorous in our method, complete in our execution. When they opened the sepulcher to confirm that Ang’jmizn Spock was indeed dead, they found two bodies frozen together.

My mother was called upon to verify the identification of the other. It was the Terran slave for whom Ang’jmizn Spock gave up his honor, lying with him in the tomb.

It was a man by the name of James Tiberius Kirk.

This is their account.


	2. Act I

Ang’jmizn Spock was tired.

He had just finished his last campaign against the Altair system and he longed to return to the red sands of his estate. The warriors were loading the last of the spoils onto the ship. They would soon make their way back to Vulcan.

Vulcan. Home. The only planet he would ever claim as his own.

Yet even the thought of Vulcan wearied him. He would be met with pomp and circumstance. The Processions, the glory of his conquest lauded throughout the planet. He would have to meet with the Council to plan his next campaign. He would undergo rituals of purification with the priests. There could be no peace or privacy for Vulcan’s best Ang’jmizn.

The only comfort he could take was in T’Pring, she who had been his companion since childhood. She who bore the same pressures as he. Ang’jmizn Spock allowed himself to indulge in the thought of her, tall and silver, for a moment. The weak bond between them called even in the great expanse of space.

He would be home soon.

He then remembered. T’Pring would expect a gift. Something rare and exotic to fascinate her mind. Something that he had chosen for her specifically.

Spock wandered among the spoils, but nothing satisfied him. He would have to find her gift in some other system along the way. Perhaps among one of planets that paid tribute.

It was just as well. His crew required some recreation to ease themselves from the relentless campaign he had waged.

“Chief mishek, are the engines in satisfactory condition?”

“Affirmative.”

“Dakharausu, warp 3. Plot a course to the Laurentian system, where we will collect tribute. The crew is granted leave.”

“Understood.”

His orders were carried out with cool efficiency. Within four minutes, the _Buk_ went into warp.

He would soon be home.

\--

As soon as he stepped off the _Buk_ , the Council met him. T’Pring was among them, dressed in silver.

“Spock.”

“T’Pau,” Spock knelt before her.

“Thou hast returned glorious. Vulcan honors thee.”

“I am honored by Vulcan.”

The Council continued the ritual of honor, but T’Pring could see his impatience.

“Thou hast defeated our enemies by the might of logic.”

“Our enemies are defeated. May Vulcan live eternal.”

It amused her that he was so eager to leave. As when they were children, and Spock was ever impatient to go into space and prove himself, show to Vulcan and the galaxy once and for all that he had mastered his training.

“Thou art the sword of Vulcan. Thy blade is sharp.”

“I am the instrument of order. My life I dedicate to the protection of our Way.”

With those words, T’Pring felt the cold tendrils of duty taking over him. Impatience vanished. He stood and went through each step, reciting the words precisely and granting weight to their meaning.

It was their Way.

T’Pau put her fingers to his psi points and nodded.

“Thou has returned victorious. Vulcan honors thee.”

“I am honored by Vulcan. My life I lay down in her service.”

The High Councilor withdrew her hand.

“Rise, Spock. The priests have consulted. We have named thee Ang’jmizn of the next campaign to be waged against the Orions. Wilt thou accept this commission?”

T’Pring felt Spock keep hold of himself. There was a time when he longed for honor and the glory of Vulcan. She remembered his first campaign, when he came back flush from the thrill of victory.

Now the taste of victory had lost its savor. His life was devoted to honor and duty, upholding the traditions of Vulcan. It brought him joy, but that joy was subdued. Tempered by the wars he had waged across the galaxy.

“I accept.”

“Thou wilt join us three days hence, after thou hast been purified by the priests,” T’Pau nodded. Her eyes softened. “Rest, Spock. Get thee to thy estate and look thou upon that which restores thy katra, the foundations of thy ancestry written in rock. T’Pring, attend to thy betrothed.”

Emotion flared inside her. She did not to be ordered. It was a duty she took upon herself gladly. Emotion flashed, but she kept her silver facade.

Spock held up the ta’al to her.

“Dif-tor heh smusma, T’Pring.”

“Sochya eh dif, Spock.”

In silence, they walked to the hovercar waiting for them.

They said nothing to one another while in transport. Spock merely gazed out the window of the vehicle, sometimes turning his dark eyes on her. T’Pring maintained her facade until they were in the privacy of his palace.

His slaves and attendants were waiting when they arrived. Spock greeted them, spoke with his stewards concerning the household accounts while T’Pring looked at the dinner menu and selected Spock’s favorite dishes, rid herself of her cloak, watching his movements all the while. After an interval, he waved most of the slaves away, relying only on his old attendant to disrobe him of his heavy uniform.

“Prepare my place of meditation.”

This was how it had been the last three times he returned from the wars. He did not speak, only maintained dutiful silence until after he had meditated and dined.

T’Pring was patient. She had waited fourteen months for him to return from this journey. She could wait three hours longer.

Dinner was a subdued affair, marked by the quiet clinking of silverware, imported from Klingon. One of his earlier and most taxing campaigns.

While Spock sat opposite her, absorbed in his world, T’Pring considered her own affairs. She would delay his next excursion into space. They must have some time together else the bond, already weakening from disuse, might collapse altogether. And there were the politics of how to manage the new system Spock had conquered. The Council would surely desire to sent T’Griv as governor, but T’Pring had her doubts about T’Griv’s ability to administrate.

She was in the middle of a thousand calculations for the next political maneuver when Spock suddenly rose from the table, his meal half eaten.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, forgetting the silence and facades and concerns of their duty.

“No.”

He did not elaborate.

“I will have another meal prepared—”

“Unnecessary,” he answered sharply.

T’Pring looked at him, her facade returning. It always happened this way. He was changed in some way.

Spock closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled.

“Forgive, T’Pring. It was not my intention.”

She nodded.

Something uncoiled between them.

“Follow me to the study. I have something to show you.”

She followed, curious.

When she entered his study, he had his back to her. T’Pring closed the door behind her and, forgetting the space and distance and tradition that bound them, sidled up next to Spock. He was holding a strange bulky object, handling it meticulously.

“What is it?” she asked, curiosity like silver.

“Something I found in the Altair system,” he turned. He carefully placed the object in her hands. “For you.”

His fingers lingered on her inner wrists, then slowly withdrew.

T’Pring’s eyes flashed with emotion.

“Is it a machine? It seems antiquated.”

She bent her head and turned it over in her hands to examine it.

“It is an antique,” he nodded. “There is a disk inside.”

Spock pressed a button and the screen flickered on.

“A two dimensional player?” she asked, fascinated.

“Indeed. Watch. It will play music.”

She watched, oblivious to Spock’s dark eyes on her. T’Pring was totally absorbed in this new gift that Spock had found for her.

And then, as he promised, there was music.

But the sound was jarring in her ears. It was nothing like Vulcan’s symphonies and songs. There was something primal and untamed about this music and it rattled her. She listened for a while, something inside repulsed by the sound.

Spock could feel it, the way the music disconcerted her. He turned it off.

“You found it disturbing,” he said, as though repeating a fact.

“It is different. Alien. Almost wild with emotion,” she paused. “Did you enjoy it?”

A pause.

“I found it compelling.”

She had nothing to say to that.

“What was it? Does it have a name?”

Spock gently took the object from her hands and stowed it away.

“I will find you a more appropriate gift the next time I return.”

“Do not concern yourself, Spock. I was not so badly affected.”

“Nevertheless.”

A pause.

“What was it?” she asked again.

“I was not able to discover the name of the machine, but the music is Terran in origin. It is an opera, from their pre-Warp days.”

“An opera,” she repeated.

“Yes,” he turned back to her.”

“Does it have a title?”

Spock nodded, but did not answer immediately.

“It is called _Aida_.”

“Aida. A strange word.”

“It is a name. The name of a slave, in fact,” he paused, then motioned for her to sit. “Tell me how you have been passing your time while I was away. What has occupied your thoughts?”

She almost smiled. T’Pring settled into a chair and by habit, arranged herself in her councilor posture. Spock frowned.

“Do not stand on ceremony with me, T’Pring.”

She relaxed, silver facade melting away.

“Sit, Spock. I have much to tell you.”

\--

It was as though something was hounding him.

Spock had been born and bred for space. Before his went on his first campaign, it was all he ever dreamed of. He lived and breathed those dreams of glory, he shared with T’Pring his every vision of the battles he would win.

After his first campaign, he was changed. T’Pring saw it in his eyes. But he refused to recount to her whatever had occurred in that space, instead taking comfort in the solidity of her presence. The days after his first Procession, his first cleansing, he woke T’Pring and they left the walls of the city as they had when they were children. Spock stared up at the stars, and he looked at her with his dark eyes.

Ever since his first campaign, T’Pring felt Spock’s constant longing. In space, he longed to be on Vulcan. On Vulcan, he longed to be back in space. He went on campaign after campaign after campaign, returning the most stunning victories the galaxy had ever seen. He lived by the sense of duty they had written into his body, the values of honor they had inscribed into his mind. It was his world, it was his way, as it had always been.

T’Pring’s training was of a different sort. But she was equally honor bound and duty bound to take her place in the Council. The priests had engineered the match between them, they had seen this destiny written in the stars.

Their love of Vulcan united them, bound them deeply in ways few others could understand.

But he was changed.

“I see no reason why it is necessary to continue this practice of mass execution of prisoners. They are defeated and conquered. What use it is to deprive them of life as well?”

“Spock, it is our Way. It is the way things have always been and always will be.”

“You call upon tradition.”

“Tradition and logic. It is necessary to deprive our enemies of their soldiers, or they will organize and fight against us. These are the first steps of preventing resistance. Or do you desire to release them and fight against the enemy eternally, never to attain peace?”

Spock bristled.

“The practice breeds resentment among them. If we might show a measure of mercy, then the chances of resistance decrease.”

“There is no value in mercy. We are founded on our code of justice.”

“Justice,” Spock repeated.

“It is our Way.”

He looked away. The silence was heavy between them.

“Spock?”

He turned his dark eyes back on her.

“T’Pring. If you had seen—” he inhaled. “If you had seen some of the things I have seen—”

He could not say it.

“What have you seen?” she raised her hand to meld with him.

Spock stopped her.

“No. I will not burden you with this—you already have your politics you must see to.”

T’Pring could feel him rein himself in.

“You are right. It is our Way.”

He bowed.

“I must meet with the priests for purification.”

“The Council has not decided upon a date—”

“It will be soon,” he said, expression shuttering. “It is always soon.”

\--

“The Orions are no threat to our territories.”

“Nevertheless, they must be taught a lesson.”

“The rebellion was minor and contained. It will do no good to send our ships to that sector to dominate it. Our resources would be put to better use visiting the fledgling colonies and supporting their building efforts.”

“Ang’jmizn, let the Council govern. It is thy place to execute orders.”

“May I not speak to tell thee of what I have seen?”

“We have heard thy statements.”

He turned to T’Pring, seeking an ally.

“See reason, Spock. The rebellion was, as thou sayest, minor, but those who defy Vulcan’s order must be punished. It shall be an easy conquest. It cannot last more than two months. We already have many strongholds in that system.”

Spock stood against her silver gaze.

“Thou speakest of the complete subjugation of a tributary system which hath thus far exhibited neither sign nor signal of unrest or discontent. If thou wilt punish them, must not the punishment be in proportion to the offense?”

“It was no mere rebellion, Spock, but a betrayal,” T’Pring answered. “For those who would betray us, for sviksu, there can be no mercy. It is our Way.”

“It is our Way,” he repeated.

Duty, honor, tradition keeping him firmly in place.

The campaign, as T’Pring anticipated, took less than two months.

It was managing the situation afterwards that kept Spock in space for another year.

\--

Humans knew the Vulcans were going to come after them. It was inevitable. As the Vulcan Fleet conquered system after system, they would turn their attention to Earth soon. It was only a matter of time.

But humans would be damned if they didn’t go without a fight. And sometimes, the best defense was an aggressive offense, so that’s exactly what they did.

They allied themselves with every free, fighting, and rebellious system left in the Alpha Quadrant. They lent their ships out constantly, whenever they could and whatever they could spare, participating in the massive battles waged between the cobbled fleet of the resistance and the organized menace of the Vulcans.

The strategy was invaluable. It gave humans experience and seasoned vets who could keep their heads against impossible odds. It gave them captains like Winona Kirk, fearless and strong and a damned brilliant tactician. She and her sons, George and Jim Kirk, were already becoming legendary on Earth.

Legendary because sometimes, the Kirks pulled off victories. Sometimes, they won.

But Win was smarter than to think that those victories meant anything. She learned something from every battle and she knew the successes were good for morale. It showed people that the Vulcans were beatable. It kept spirits up.

But these were battles won against minor Vulcan commanders. If Earth was practicing for the Big One, so were the Vulcans. At least, that’s what Jim’s intel pointed to, and he was usually spot on. The real test would come when the Vulcans unleashed their finest weapon of warfare on Earth.

And no one, not even Jim, could get anything on this guy. They didn’t even know if it was a guy. Only that he/she was Vulcan, and that he/she was a military genius. Remorseless, precise, merciless. Everything the Vulcans stood for. Humans had their work cut out for them.

Information on his tactics was hard to come by. The Vulcan was so thorough it was hard to pick up any kind of meaningful trail. Records and reports of battles were spotty at best, though they managed to find some complete files. Win studied the crap out of them, analyzing every possibility. The crux of the information problem was that any place the Vulcan paid a visit to, the system fell completely. Spy ships, observation vessels, very little escaped in the vicious cleanup campaign the Vulcans waged after their total victory. Everything in that sector became pure Vulcan territory, under the iron rule and oversight of the Council. No free person, no sane person went into Vulcan territory unless they wanted to be sold into slavery.

And in the center of it all was Vulcan itself.

They called it the Fortress because that’s what it was. Impregnable. Any war against Vulcan, any truly offensive war, would have to take on the Vulcan colonies before they could even think of penetrating the inner sanctum. At least that’s what the Admiralty thought. They thought they’d have to planet-hop their way there until they got to knocking on the gates of the Fortress.

Win thought that was bullshit.

She didn’t know what kind of security the Vulcans had on their planet, but she figured that if they managed to take out the Fortress, everything else would collapse like a row of dominos. Or at least be seriously weakened.

The Admiralty thought she was crazy. The Kirks had a reputation for being a little crazy. By all reports, Vulcans had a very well organized colonial government and just because they shot the heart didn’t mean the rest of the body was powerless. There were plenty of Vulcans, and plenty of Vulcan forces, to be found like web around the main planet.

But Win was determined to find out whatever she could. If they wanted to keep Earth free and intact, she was convinced that the only way to do that was to kill their best Commander and take out Vulcan itself. The war would rage on for years, she knew, but this would even the odds and might encourage some of the Vulcan colonies and tribute planets to rebel. So she sent her younger son on a mission to find out whatever he could about that elusive Commander and keep his ears open for anything about Vulcan.

She sent Jim out with a small ship and a small crew, a cover story and fake documents, to get this done.

For six months, he reported back to her faithfully with fresh intel and groundbreaking information about the Vulcan Fleet. Even better, he got a hot tip on the Commander that he was going to follow up on. After that, he gave her two more reports. More golden and invaluable info. His plan was set. They were going in.

Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while, he’d told her. This misson’s going to take at least a couple months.

Win waited.

She was good at waiting. It made her a good captain, knowing when to strike and when to wait.

But the silence stretched. Stretched into six months. Then eight. Then ten.

Silence like that meant two things in Win’s world. Death, or capture.

He was gone.

If the Admiralty thought Win was crazy before, that was nothing.

It was personal now. It had always been personal (her husband’s voice telling her he loved her so much, sacrificing himself so that Win and Jim could escape from the Vulcans), but this was her baby. This was Jim.

She didn’t believe Jim was dead. She would know if he were dead. He was alive. He was alive, somewhere in vast territory of the Vulcans.

And Win was going to get him back.

She swore to herself, she promised, that she would get her baby boy back.

It was precisely when she made this resolution that every alarm bell at HQ went off. The Vulcan Fleet was marshalling their forces for a campaign on Earth.

\--

Those Vulcan Interrogators were no fucking joke. Jim had decent shielding abilities, but fuck. They just raped his mind and saw everything. He was too busy vomiting in his cell and trying to figure out a way to make his pounding migraine go away than figure out some kind of escape or consider his options.

They were going to execute him. Quickly, if he was lucky. Jim had no illusions about his situation.

At least he would die free. That was more than he could say for some bastards who fell into the hands of the Vulcans.

He fell asleep on the floor—he’d been in worse situations, the pool of vomit really wasn’t a big deal—allowing the bliss of cool oblivion to take him away from the confines of his cell.

He would die free. The thought comforted him.

Win had always said it was better to die standing than live on your knees. But, she’d always cautioned, if there’s a chance to survive, and survive to be free, take it.

There was no way in hell living under Vulcans would constitute any sort of freedom. Once a slave under the Fortress, always a slave. With very little chances of escape, at least as far as Jim could tell. Like their territories, the Vulcans kept a firm hand on all their property. Possessive fuckers. Even if he had the choice, he’d never give himself up to them. It went against everything he believed in, everything that was right and good in the universe.

Tomorrow, he would die a free man.

He was fine with that.

Of course, Jim would rather live. But he could think of worse ways to go.

\--

Was there no end to this cycle? The duty that pressed on his chest, the honor that dug into his shoulders, his neck weighed down with the ages of Vulcan tradition.

He reined himself in. Duty was his life. Honor was his being. The glory of Vulcan was his world, his purpose. The whole of his existence was dedicated to Vulcan, his people and his planet.

T’Pau bid him return.

Spock welcomed her summons. He wanted to see the red dunes, the walls of the city, T’Kuht hanging in the sky. He did not even mind the prospect of the procession, the Council meetings, going to the temple. He could see in his mind the ancient stones at the entrance to his father’s house.

And he would visit the marker of his father’s grave. Sarek had died in space, in a battle against the Klingons. His father had initiated that campaign and invented the strategy that ate into the territories of the former Klingon Empire. The dutiful son finished what his father had started. Those had been brutal and dark days.

It was also Sarek’s idea to engineer Spock and train him to take on the mantle of Ang’jmizn. The Terran woman Sarek had chosen was said to be exceptional. There were stories whispered that Sarek had even melded with her, he was so besotted with her charms.

She offered to have the embryo implanted in her womb. She died giving birth to Spock.

Sarek was in space, warring against the Klingons when Spock was born. It is said he died shortly after the Terran expired, if such things are to be believed.

T’Pau raised Spock according to his father’s original plan. She was thorough in every aspect of his education. He became so successful that he easily surpassed the glory of his father. It was everything he wanted. Spock had everything he was taught to desire.

Yet he could not help but feel restless, despite all his achievements.

He paused in his thoughts. Spock had been wandering in this planet’s capital city and found himself walking along a slave auctioning house. Pushing all his thoughts to the back of his mind, he entered the building. Perhaps he would find T’Pring’s gift here.

There were several auction blocks with traders selling their wares. He walked down, eyes scanning the crowd when suddenly

“Fuck you. _Fuck you_. You’ll fucking buy her over my dead body!”

Everyone stopped to see the spectacle.

It was a Terran, wild and feral, holding a small Andorian female protectively. The child was crying while an old Tamarian woman leered.

An intriguing sight. Spock stood in place, watching.

The traders began manhandling the Terran, trying to force him to let go of the child. The Terran fought back with surprising proficiency, using the traders’ unstable sense of balance against him and knocking him to the ground.

It was not long, however, before the guards came. He was outnumbered. Nevertheless, the Terran used his legs, elbows, even his head to keep away the guards and hold the child. But the outcome was inevitable. After a few minutes, they had the Terran pinned down, face smashed into the ground, hands tied behind his back. The Andorian child screamed, struggling against the traders leading her away to the buyer.

The fight over, business resumed in the building.

The Terran, however, was still struggling against the guards and his bonds, his face full of rage, hatred directed at anyone who looked him in the eye.

He was about to be led away when Spock found himself saying

“Stop.”

The Terran looked at him sharply. There was recognition in his eyes. Interesting.

“Bring him forward.”

The guards obeyed, neatly lifting the Terran and forcing him to his knees.

“Let him stand. What is your name?”

The Terran drew himself to his full height, shoving against the guards’ attempts to force him up again.

“My name is James Tiberius Kirk.”

Unusual. He said his name as though it was a declaration, an act of defiance. Perhaps it was, as many slaves were renamed to mark the master’s ownership.

“Then, James Tiberius Kirk, how does a soldier of Starfleet, with your degree of skill and proficiency, find himself in Vulcan territory?”

The Terran’s eyes widened. He regained control of his features almost immediately and angled his body for Spock’s appraisal.

“I was too pretty to resist,” he smiled, menace behind his eyes.

Do it. Look at me. I fucking dare you. You know you want to.

The Vulcan looked at him, dark eyes examining his features. But there was no lingering, no lust. It was as though the Vulcan was looking at an interesting animal. The sensation rankled Jim more.

“Like what you see?” he pressed.

The Terran was altogether bolder than he had any right to be. Spock swiftly pressed his fingers to the Terran’s face, catching him off guard once more.

It took only a touch. What he found surprised him.

“You have been Interrogated. Quite thoroughly, if they were able to leave such a strong signature in you.”

Jim snarled.

Spock looked at him, eyes dark and intense. He speculated.

This Terran has been Interrogated, possibly humiliated and subjected to painful forms of punishment, yet he was as wild as the desert wind.

It was... disturbing.

Compelling. Something compelled Spock. It was not attraction or curiosity, but a calling. A compulsion. Like the disturbing music of the opera, this Terran made something inside him shift, stir. His instincts were whispering to him.

Spock found himself listening.

His instincts had never failed him. He had learned, early on in his training, to utilize both his intelligence and his intuition fully in the heat of battle. His instincts were whispering, and it was enough for him to make a decision.

“Where is your trader? What is his price?”

“You want to _buy_ me? For what?”

Spock ignored the questions and found the trader.

“What do you want from me?”

The transaction was efficient. He paid the full price for the Terran; it was somewhat inflated above what Spock thought the Terran was actually worth, but he made no comment on the matter.

“Hey! Hey you! _Master_. What’re you going to do with me?”

The question burned in Jim’s mind.

“You gonna fuck me? Are you gonna mindfuck me or something?”

He pressed the Vulcan’s limits, constantly asking and talking, trying to find ways to trick answers from his lips, testing the boundaries of this Vulcan. Of the Ang’jmizn, of all people.

“What’re you going to do with me?”

No answers. Only silence and dark eyes. The Vulcan was watching him, carefully.

Win had given Jim his first lessons in espionage. It was her idea to push him down that track in the first place. She also taught him herself that the first thing a spy always does—observe. That’s what the Vulcan was doing with those unreadable eyes of his. He was learning a shit ton more about Jim than Jim was learning from him, shouting his questions.

Jim shut up and focused his mother’s words. As the Vulcan led him to an escort car, Jim set his mind to absorbing any and all information about his surroundings. It’d keep his thoughts from spinning off to other things.

Then he realized that he was actually going to be on the inside of a Vulcan ship. If he was really lucky, they wouldn’t blindfold him—

Spock reached over and nerve pinched the Terran. The car came to a halt.

“Place him in a holding cell, attend to his medical needs. He is my property.”

He is my property, and will be treated as such. The words hung over the prone form of James Tiberius Kirk.

“Understood, Ang’jmizn.”

As they loaded the Terran onto the transporter pad and beamed to the _Buk_ , Spock wondered how T’Pring would react to this gift.

\--

T’Pring and Jim regarded each other dubiously.

She disliked him immediately. He was pleasing to look at, but that was his only redeeming quality.

As for Jim, whatever he thought Spock—that was the Vulcan’s name, he found out—would have him do when the Vulcan bought him, being a gift to his betrothed was not on that list. He’d been kept in a holding cell with the other purchases for the entire trip and hadn’t seen head or tail of the Vulcan the whole time. They knocked him out again with that pinch thing they did and when he woke up, he found himself in a small furnished room. Someone came in with food, clean clothes, told Jim he was on Lord Spock’s estate on Vulcan, that Lord Spock was in Procession—whatever that meant—and Lord Spock wouldn’t be back until the next day.

Basically, the first couple days of being officially owned, Jim spent a whole lot of time doing nothing.

It wasn’t what he expected, to say the least.

He made the most of it by trying to figure out any way he could get a message to Win, but couldn’t find anything. Vulcan bastards were Vulcan bastards—anal and thorough.

Three days later, he was summoned to stand in Spock’s presence, where the Vulcan presented him with some complicated robes and told him he was going to be a gift to what was basically the Vulcan’s fiancée, Lady T’Pring.

Jim had no idea what to make of that. And by the look T’Pring was giving him, she didn’t either.

Nevertheless, she accepted Spock’s gift with grace and dignity, silver mask firmly in place.

T’Pring soon found there was no place for this human in her household. He was absolutely useless. His insolence was galling. It did not help matters that Spock’s silence encouraged his behavior.

She never had slaves like this before. The ones she bought were always well trained and well behaved—expensive, but she could afford that expense. T’Pring had to admit that she was strangely fascinated by this rambunctious creature, almost as though he was an interesting piece of machinery and she wanted to see what made him tick. It was a perverse interest, like the delight one might take in a festering infection.

All her efforts to break him with force only led to his further rebellion and more subversive behavior. Yet she would not see him totally destroyed. He was, after all, a gift from Spock and that fact loomed over the human like a talisman of protection.

But T’Pring was not the best politician that Vulcan produced for nothing. She knew the insidious nature of soft power, of conditioning that slips between the cracks and latches in with tiny hooks and claws.

If force did not work, then so be it. T’Pring took every opportunity to remind James that he was a slave. They were little digs and statements, telling him he had no choice in the matter, telling him to be silent, to attend, making him aware that her use of his name, James, was her decision and never his. She could see that it disturbed the human, these mind games she was playing, and was self assured that before long, the human would attend immediately and without question.

It was her Way.

And it drove Jim up the wall. He knew what she was doing and he hated it. There were days when he tried to avoid her presence altogether. It was kind of impossible. But when he could, he took refuge in the quiet of Spock’s palace. Spock and T’Pring had, for reasons that were totally opaque to him, allowed Jim access to the Ang’jmizn’s estate. It was probably because when Spock was on Vulcan and not destroying civilizations, T’Pring spent half her time there anyway. It didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that he had somewhere else to go, temporarily away from T’Pring’s silver gaze. Jim used that.

He soon found out that certain parts of the estate were completely off limits to everyone except Spock.

Jim calculated the cost/benefits of breaking into one of those rooms. The cost—his privilege to be there on the estate all would be revoked. The cost—he might not learn anything interesting. The cost—even if he did learn something, it’s not as though he could forward the information to Win. Jim looked into all his options of escape and communication. They were not good. There was a reason why they called Vulcan the Fortress. He’d exhausted his brain searching for ideas.

The benefit—he’d be doing something of his own free will, fuck Vulcan, fuck Spock and T’Pring, and fuck the gold armbands he had to wear.

By Jim’s calculations, the benefits hugely outweighed whatever cost. He’d already lost everything important anyway.

So he watched Spock enter the codes one day for one of the rooms. Jim replayed the sequence he saw the fingers move over and over in his head until he was pretty sure he knew it cold. Of course, that was only if Spock didn’t change the password every day.

Just to be on the safe side, Jim watched Spock do it three more times. Same sequence.

When he finally broke in, nerves tingling, familiar adrenaline rushing in his veins, he found himself in... a storage closet? Some sort of attic, except as a room? The place was full of bric-a-brac, weird alien objects that looked ancient or obsolete or just plain useless.

He thought it’d be at least a library, or a room of computer terminals. This—not what he expected.

He began to focus in on individual objects, adrenaline making it hard for him to stay still. But there must be a reason for the room and all the shit that was piled up inside. More than that, the object had to lend some insight on the mind of the owner. Jim had no idea what to make of the Vulcan Ang’jmizn. They really had no interactions since the time Spock bought Jim. And, if Jim’s guess was correct, Spock didn’t interact that much with his own slaves. His estate was enormous but his staff relatively small, at least compared to T’Pring’s. Maybe it was because he was always in space? There were few slaves, but Jim found that they were all surprisingly intelligent, efficient, and had been working on Spock’s estate for a long time.

Well, Spock was the Ang’jmizn. Probably got first pick of the war spoils. Of course he’d get the best slaves—smart, responsible, and docile. Spock commanded total obedience.

But this room of junk. There was some really old technology. Jim picked up a bulky box at random, fiddled with the buttons.

Unexpectedly, sound came out of the thing. Music.

He panicked at the sudden noise and scrambled to turn it off, heart pounding in his chest that someone would hear and he’d get caught.

Nothing happened. Silence, and nothing but Jim’s blood roaring in his ears. He decided to leave before something actually went down and Spock walked. Though there was little chance of that happening. Jim timed it carefully—Spock was in purification right now.

The adrenaline was making him shaky though. Better leave. But, he also decided to return. And maybe try breaking into some more forbidden rooms.

\--

Jim got bold. Bold was good. Bold was what Jim was. But too bold, and Jim had a tendency to get careless. Win warned him about it all the time. The lesson had yet to sink in as second instinct.

He was in the room again, the room with all the knick-knacks. He lost count of how many times he’d come back, drawn to the hodgepodge of objects that Spock insisted on keeping and keeping secret. Jim got so used to the space and being there that he even picked up the first thing he messed with—it was some kind of two dimensional vid player—and listened to the music.

It was kind of nice. Opera wasn’t his thing, but he listened to the entirety of it while he fiddled around with the other bits and bobs tucked away in the room.

He really really should’ve remembered that Vulcans have eidetic memories.

Because one day Spock summoned him and dragged him to the front door of that room.

“Open the door.”

Jim tried lying.

“I don’t know the code.”

“Open the door. You have done so before, and multiple times. Now, open the door.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“What, gonna look into my mind? Gonna interrogate me?”

The words flew out of Jim’s mouth when really, he should’ve stayed quiet. The Vulcan played the silence game too well. He heard and saw everything.

But in Jim’s books, silence was neither here nor there, and some part of him took it as permission, even approval. So the words flew out of the Jim’s mouth.

“Do it. Fucking do it.”

“I have no need to use my telepathic abilities. You have entered this room and rearranged the objects within.”

Oh. Damn.

“So? That just means someone was there. Doesn’t mean I did it.”

“You have been seen in this area several times in the past weeks.”

“The watcher has to be here too if they’re watching.”

“James—Jim—”

Jim’s eyes widened.

“That is the name you prefer to be called, is it not?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I cannot constantly refer to you as ‘Terran’ or ‘human.’”

“You can do whatever you want.”

Spock looked at Jim curiously.

“Is there a way any statement I make will not be construed as a personal offense to you?”

“No.”

He wanted to see how far he could push this, exactly how much he could get away with before Spock came down on him, and came down _hard_. If at all. It would be kind of a letdown to find out that the Vulcan Commander was a pushover. Destroyer of worlds, can’t order a slave he bought for his fiancée around. Whatever. If it was true, Jim could use that.

“Very well. Open the door.”

“No.”

He wasn’t even making excuses now.

Spock, if he was honest with himself, did not know why he was so indulgent with this human. The conversation should not be taking place. Yet it was. He did not know why he was going through the trouble of attempting to negotiate with a slave.

“I will grant you access to my library if you open this door.”

Holy shit. Jim didn’t see that one coming.

It took power games to another level. But that was the point of slavery—you didn’t need to play power games to get your slaves to do shit. You could just make them do it. So what the hell was this Vulcan’s angle? He really didn’t know what to make of Spock.

Fuck it. He’d worry about that later. Jim wanted to see the library, so he punched in the sequence and opened the door.

“Satisfactory.”

Jim bristled.

Then the Vulcan closed the door, turned around and began walking down the hall.

“What, that’s it?” Jim ran to catch up with him.

“I have very few files that are written in your native language, whichever Terran variant it may be—”

“Fleet uses E-Standard.”

Spock nodded and slowed his pace to accommodate the human.

‘Fleet uses E-Standard,’ what the hell was he thinking? Of course the Vulcan already knew that. ‘Know thy enemy’ and all that.

“You are proficient in reading Vulcan.”

“Had to. Came with my job.”

“Stand here,” Spock pointed.

“Why?”

“Stand still, or the computer will not be able to correctly recognize your features.”

Spock’s house came with all sorts of bells and whistles. Jim was surprised Spock hadn’t caught him before.

“This is the pattern of sequences—”

Quick as a snake, the Vulcan put a hand to Jim’s face and he felt something jolt into him. Jim had no idea what the jolt was, but somehow, he knew.

“Enter the code.”

Jim did. He watched his fingers in fascination as they punched out the long sequence of characters, but he had no conscious knowledge of what it was.

The door slid open and he was standing in front of a small room of computer terminals and rows of data solids.

This wasn’t really happening.

“You will attempt to hack one of these terminals to gain access to other parts of the Vulcan network. I will advise against it. Attacks against Vulcan servers are rarely successful and if you are caught, you will be tried and likely executed. There is no mercy.”

There was a chance—a slim one—that the Vulcan was making this up. Besides, writing and installing a subroutine to get access to the Vulcan nets and actually carrying out an attack were two different things. And then there was the grey area in between.

“If you would like to verify my claim, you may do so in the databases dedicated to cyberlaw.”

This situation was unreal. Jim could think of a thousand different ways he could subvert the computers, all from the comfort of the Vulcan’s private library.

“You will have two hours to do as you please.”

“What, there’s a time limit?”

“No. T’Pring has summoned you.”

He couldn’t help but stare at Spock’s back as he walked out the door without another word.

Then shook his head. If the Vulcan gave Jim the keys to his own destruction, Jim wasn’t going to beat himself up about it.

He sat down and made the most of this new freedom.

\--

“You should put my gift to better use.”

“Then you should not have gifted me with such a useless slave,” she answered.

“He is not unintelligent.”

“On the contrary, he is far too intelligent. They should have executed him.”

“They should have, but they did not. I bought him as a gift to you.”

“A decision I have questioned many times.”

“T’Pring,” Spock touched his fingers to hers.

“I do not understand what you see in this human that you indulge his whims and protect him. He is getting out of hand.”

Spock was silent. He did not understand either. There was no understanding, only compulsion.

“I have been assigned to another campaign.”

“I know.”

“It will not be long.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“Will you give him access to your estates while you are gone?”

“No. They will be closed.”

“To me as well?”

“When have I ever closed the doors of my house to you?”

A rhetorical question, but T’Pring could feel the divide between them. It felt as though it was widening. She did not know how to stop it.

“I will not be long.”

He was relieved to be going out into space again. It was in his voice.

“I know.”

Silence.

“Be victorious. And find a better gift when you return.”

\--

The fucking Vulcan didn’t even tell him that he’d closed the gates to Jim when he left. Jim had to find that out on his own when he tried to get in, was refused entry by Spock’s guards, tied up, dragged back to T’Pring’s, and thrown at her feet.

She regarded him coolly.

“My Lord Spock is away on campaigns. You will not go to his estate until he returns.”

Yeah, tell him something he didn’t know.

“When’s he coming back.”

“That is not for you to know.”

Fine. He’d figure it out on his own anyway.

“Attend, James.”

He was still on the floor, tied up. Kind of hard to get up.

“Hey guys,” he called to the guards. “A little help here?”

“Leave him,” T’Pring ordered.

Spock was away. She was tempted, so tempted to snap the human’s neck right then and there. It was Spock’s fault for buying such an unsuitable slave in the first place. But no. She had found the solution to her problem. It was distasteful, but necessary.

“Attend, James.”

Jim stayed on the floor.

Then suddenly felt T’Pring wrench him up with her strength. It hurt. A lot.

“Follow me.”

Later, Jim would regret following her. He would regret that Spock gave him to T’Pring. He might even regret that they didn’t kill him when they caught him. He had no idea how Spock treated his slaves, but at least sadistic mind games weren’t part of it.

Because standing in the courtyard was a child, wide eyed and naked. He couldn’t really tell what species it was. Possibly a mix.

“Now, James,” she motioned to her handmaid to take her place. “Each time you defy me, each time you do not attend immediately, I will punish the child.”

“What?! You can’t do that—!”

“I did not grant you permission to speak. Elvira,” she ordered.

And Jim watched in horror as Elvira wrenched the child’s arm. The child gave a cry of pain.

“ _Fuck you_.”

“I did not grant you permission to speak. And you will not take such a tone with me.”

Another cry.

Jim could not believe this was happening. Could not fucking believe it. Vulcans. Fucking Vulcans. There wasn’t a word that could describe this. Wasn’t a word.

“Do you understand? Do not speak, a nod is sufficient.”

Jim nodded. Hate. He hated Vulcans. He hated T’Pring, he hated this place, he hated the blood desert. He was burning up with wrath and the desire to strike out, scoop up the kid and run, far away, somewhere, anywhere, to freedom.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

Oh, but it was. It was T’Pring’s game, and she was putting the nails in his coffin.

“Each day, I will count your misdemeanors. You will watch the child be punished for every one.”

He was going to escape. He was going to get back to Earth and fucking kill every single Vulcan in the galaxy. He was going to do it.

Sealing the tomb shut.

“But,” T’Pring’s eyes glittered silver. “If you are obedient to my every wish, I will set the child free.”

He was grinding his teeth. Jim knelt, put his hands out, palms up. A gesture of supplication.

Good. At least the human was intelligent. This would be an easy task, the unpleasant business soon over.

“You have a question. Ask, James.”

“What I am responsible for with respect to the child’s welfare? Food? Clothes? Shelter?”

He was going to know everything. Everything he had to do to keep the kid alive and untouched. T’Pring made a game. He had no choice but to play. But he was going to know all the rules, and hope that the rules weren’t arbitrary. You never fucking knew with Vulcans.

“No. Only punishment. As for the terms of its freedom—I will set it free when my Lord Spock returns, or never.”

Jim raised his hands again. Focus. Play the part. Play the part, Kirk.

“Ask, James.”

“Where will the child be sent?”

“Back to its parents, of course.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. He was doing this. There was no way he was going to fail.

Feelings twisted up inside him, guilt and defiance and rage and fear that he might mess up. He’s never been good at taking orders.

Jim bowed his head, braced himself for the most hellish months of his life.

And burned to be free.


	3. Act II

T’Pring worked James to the bone. She exhausted him. The more tasks she gave, the more mistakes he could make, the more opportunities she had to use this new weapon against him. The more tasks she gave, the more the lesson washed into his mind and remolded him to her use. At the end of the day, she had him kneel and wait for her verdict.

When he set his mind to it, he was an exemplary slave. The change was remarkable. There were whole weeks where the child was allowed to go without a mark on it.

She had Elvira keep track of James and the child. Her handmaid reported that the human often visited the child, asked it questions, played with it when he had the time or energy. They were becoming attached to each other.

Good. T’Pring used that.

But she was a Vulcan of her word and by the time T’Pau summoned Spock back from space, she determined that James had earned the child’s freedom. What’s more, she was certain he had learned his lesson.

Thus, before Spock’s ship reached Vulcan, she set the child free. She arranged for the child’s parents to be brought to her estate, made a ceremony of the whole affair, an elaborate display of her power. T’Pring made him bow before her and James did so, without hesitation.

He didn’t think about humiliation or principles. The only thing he thought about was being flawless, so T’Pring wouldn’t have an excuse to change her mind. For that child’s freedom, he did anything and everything T’Pring wanted, face blank, eyes blank. Jim didn’t let himself feel anything. He held his breath during the entire ceremony, and only when they kid and parents boarded the ship did he feel something unravel inside him.

She’d made her point. And the threat hung over him that if he acted up again, she’d do it again. With the same child, a different child, it didn’t matter. She’d fucking do it again until he understood.

Jim was smart. He read between the lines and didn’t need to be taught that kind of lesson twice, not when it came at another person’s expense.

When the family finally left, shuttle launching into the sky, she watched the human’s eyes, blue and bleak, smolder with a fire she could not name.

\--

Winona did her duties with a new kind of fervor and urgency. Every Vulcan ship she destroyed was for Jim, every informant she questioned ruthlessly. So ruthlessly that she might have done some things that, in the beginning of her career with Starfleet, she had vowed she would never do.

It was different when it was personal. Win found herself breaking all her own rules when it came to Jim. She’d break all the rules for George too, but Jim was her baby. The baby she bore in space, at the end of a battle when everything was lost but George wasn’t going to let them finish everyone off. George kamikazied into that Vulcan ship, gave them the chance they needed to survive. Win counted that as her first victory. Fuck if she was going to call it a loss.

There were so many whispers of Jim, things screamed recklessly by the prisoners to stop the pain. She followed up on every single one. Some of them panned out to lead to something valuable, but not Jim. Others were never real to begin with. Half the people had never heard of James Tiberius Kirk to begin with. Win didn’t care.

Her First Officer, Nyota Uhura, kept her in check. Stopped her from going off the deep end, even if she was burning with the thirst for vengeance too. You serve in Starfleet long enough, and everything becomes personal. Every battle, every POW, everyone KIA, MIA. And every betrayal. Vulcans paid a premium for traitors. Their own ring of informants spread like a tight net across the galaxy. Lots of people were tempted, drawn to the prospect of wealth, status, power, being on the winning side.

Win, no one on the _Enterprise_ , had any tolerance for traitors.

In war, everything became personal. And they hadn’t even gotten started. This was the warm up, the clown show before the big act. If humans were going to have a chance at winning, they needed Win. And Win needed Jim. Everything hinged on him.

He was alive. She knew it. There was no way he was dead. Deep down inside, she knew that she wasn’t doing anyone a favor by clinging to this hope. But she couldn’t help it. She had to believe it, just like she had to believe they could win against the Vulcans, just like she had to believe that Vulcan Commander was mortal, fallible, _human_ —even if he was a Vulcan.

\--

Spock stepped off the shuttle, his feet touching Vulcan’s sands. The familiar sight of the Council greeted him, except—the human? T’Pring had brought the human with her as her attendant. The Terran had perfect posture. Even his eyes did not wander.

T’Pau came forward. Spock knelt.

“Thou hast returned glorious. Vulcan honors thee.”

“I am honored by Vulcan.”

Spock stole a glance to the Terran. He had not moved. T’Pring looked at Spock, her facade silver and triumphant.

“Thou hast defeated our enemies by the might of logic.”

“Our enemies are defeated. May Vulcan live eternal.”

This had been one of his shortest campaigns. He had never particularly cared about what had happened on the planet in his absence. Regular updates from the Council took care of all official business.

Now, for the first time in a long time, he was burning to know what had transpired in T’Pring’s household, that his gift was standing thus.

“Thou art the sword of Vulcan. Thy blade is sharp.”

“I am the instrument of order. My life I dedicate to the protection of our Way.”

He felt T’Pring’s touch on his mind. It was a touch he knew, but this—there was something changed. An sharpness that had always been there, but never drawn before.

“Thou has returned victorious. Vulcan honors thee.”

“I am honored by Vulcan. My life I lay down in her service.”

And for the first time, he wondered if he regretted gifting the human to T’Pring, instead of keeping him for himself.

\--

With Spock’s return came access to his estate again.

Jim spent as much time as he could there, away from T’Pring. She assigned him regular duties now, instead of loading an impossible amount of work on him. He got it done with the quick efficiency Vulcans prized, then immediately went to Spock’s estate.

He spent a lot of time in that closet full of junk, tinkering away, not thinking about the past months.

One day, Spock joined him.

Out of habit (fuck T’Pring), he stood in deference.

Spock looked at him. He motioned for Jim to relax, resume what he was doing.

“I have asked T’Pring if I might arrange permanent quarters for you in my house. She has granted permission. You may stay here tonight, if you so wish.”

There was an angle. There was always an angle. In his experience with T’Pring, she never did anything for just one reason.

But Jim didn’t ask.

“My steward will show you your room.”

Silence. Jim learned to play that game really well.

“I have also informed her that I have opened my house to you when I am away. You may come and go as you please.”

What the hell was this, some sadistic game of good cop, bad cop?

“Why?”

Spock seemed to shrug.

“It is my wish. I regret—” he stopped himself.

T’Pring was to be his bondmate. He would not undermine her authority with her own slaves. He did not sanction her methods on this human and was not aware that she was capable of such actions. But then, she did not know what he was capable of in the field of war.

No, he would not undermine her so directly. It was unseemly. Tradition demanded respect.

“It is my wish.”

In the months under T’Pring’s regimen, Jim learned to read between the lines. It was essential. So he heard what Spock wasn’t saying, the loaded meaning behind those two words, “I regret.”

He could use that.

Spock left.

Jim sat, surrounded by a pile of oddities. Something that he had submerged stirred inside him. Not hope. He wasn’t that naive.

But, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone. Spock wasn’t an ally—alliances were made freely. Jim refused to call him protector. Jim fucking looked out for himself. And not a friend—friendships were given between equals, not taken from the slave by the master.

He wasn’t alone. Jim settled on that, something stirring inside him.

\--

Old habits die hard. Jim learned his lesson with T’Pring, but with a new space came new possibilities. In the space of Spock’s estate, he found his old habits reemerging. He didn’t bow, didn’t kneel, didn’t take up those stupid positions T’Pring said were traditional for slaves of high households. And Spock didn’t say anything about it.

When T’Pring was there, Jim followed every rule, dotted his i’s and crossed every fucking t. When she wasn’t, he lounged in the library. Slouched. He censored the things that came out of his mouth, but didn’t silence himself. Spock let him talk back, on the few occasions that he and Spock had any interaction at all.

Spock’s silence was a double edged sword. He would stand silent when T’Pring ordered Jim around. He would stand silent when he caught Jim breaking into his study. Jim couldn’t figure out if the Vulcan was ignoring him, encouraging him, permitting him, or maybe even letting Jim make whatever choices he wanted. Giving him a false sense of freedom.

But fuck it, Jim’s freedom was never something anyone had the right to grant to take away. T’Pring made her authority clear to Jim. Spock carried that power in his silences. Jim hated the situation he was in, hated the slavery, the fact that the only two places he could go was to T’Pring’s hellhole or Spock’s estate. An entire world was closed to him when they took him and made him a slave and Jim found himself wishing every day that he had mutilated himself so that the Interrogators would have executed him. So that he would have died free.

That’s how he found himself staring at a knife he took from the kitchen, tracing the line of his femoral artery, thinking of a possibility. He put it down, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. There had to be another way. That was the last option. Win always said to be patient and wait, wait for an opportunity. It was all about timing. Vulcans were defeatable. She had proved it in battle. He would prove it here.

Jim stared at the knife, a plan coalescing in his mind. He had a snowball’s chance in hell that it would work.

 _It’s all about the timing, Jim. Plan and wait for it. With patience and a little luck, you can take on anyone._

Win was able to do impossible things with a starship. This plan that was coming together—he’s never been very patient. It was one of the things he really had to learn, training to become an intelligence agent. Little things that Jim could use fell into place, contingency plans and possibilities.

This really had a snowball’s chance in hot flaming temperatures-suitable-for-fusion hell that it would get him out and away. He was crazy to even be considering it.

But Jim remembered T’Pring, remembered the child, remembered his anger and Win’s voice. Remembered Spock’s indulgence. He could use that.

Besides, the Kirks always had a reputation for being crazy anyway.

\--

“Win.”

“Nyota, what do you have?”

“I think we’ve got a tip.”

Win’s breath caught. They got tips all the time. Her breath caught every time.

“Where?”

“It’s in the Empire.”

“We’ll risk it. Rescue ops, shuttle based, follow the SOP.”

Nyota nodded, steel behind her gaze.

“Any news on Sulu or Chekov?”

“No.”

Win git her teeth. She’d sent them out on recon too. They’d been silent for six months now.

“Conference room, 1300. Bring the regulars, tell me what you know.”

\--

Spock was sitting in his study when found himself facing the end of an archaic Tellarite weapon, one that he had picked up from his campaigns and stored in the Object Room. It had not been in working condition when he obtained it. Apparently, the human found a way to fix that.

“Don’t move,” Jim said.

Spock raised his eyebrow and followed Jim with his dark eyes.

“What do you expect to gain from this gesture?”

“What the fuck do you think?” Jim bit out.

Spock made a motion.

“Don’t fucking move or I swear to god I’ll blow your head off.”

There was a good chance the human would do so.

“I want a ship, a crew. I want codes, I want safe passage out of Vulcan and all your colonies.”

“I can provide a ship, and possibly give you a Terran crew. I will grant temporary codes. However, I cannot guarantee safe passage. I can only direct you to routes where discovery is unlikely.”

The Vulcan was completely nonchalant about it.

He had to be, if he was Vulcan’s best. Jim couldn’t deny that Spock had the cool confidence of someone who’d invaded and smashed scores of worlds.

“I want a Vulcan ship.”

“That, I cannot do. The technology on board is strictly classified.”

He said it like it was something he regret. What, conquering a galaxy wasn’t challenging enough for him? He wanted to give away some secrets? Jim was all for that.

Focus, Kirk. You’ve got the weapon.

Jim didn’t think about the guards outside and a house full of loyal servants. He focused on his weapon and the fact that Spock clearly didn’t want to kill Jim. Maybe he should’ve just asked or something.

Focus, Kirk.

“You’re not the one in a position to fucking negotiate.”

He knew those were the wrong words as soon as they left his mouth.

“On the contrary,” Spock rose. “I am.”

“Stay the fuck there.”

Timing and patience, Kirk. Don’t get jumpy. Hold your ground.

“If you desire escape, you need me. You need my authority, you need access to resources only I can provide.”

Jim already knew that. It was one the many reasons why he was pointing his weapon at Spock, not T’Pring. Even if he did want to kill her more.

“If you desire death, then discharge your weapon. I assure you, it makes no difference to me what you choose.”

“What?”

That was not in the script. At least not in the ones he imagined.

“You want to die?”

Spock shrugged.

“I do not fear death. I never have.”

“Bullshit. Everyone’s afraid to die. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”

He said it just to say it. He said it to get a little more intel on Spock, create a better psychological profile.

The Vulcan looked at him strangely.

“I would make a poor officer if I did. As would you.”

Don’t lose focus, Jim. Don’t lose focus.

“Ship. Crew. Codes. Routes.”

“It will take time to make the necessary arrangements.”

“Do it now.”

“Jim, put the weapon down.”

“Don’t call me that. And no fucking way.”

“You have already calculated the logistics of this plan. You know that it will take at least four hours for me to have everything in order.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“You have been using my terminals to research, you have been speaking to my slaves, you have been reading my books. The attempts you made to disguise your actions were excellent, and I must admit that I had not anticipated that you would find a weapon. It is clear you calculated the costs and benefits.”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I want is a ship, crew, codes, and routes.”

“Your plan was well thought out, though the execution has something to be desired—”

“Shut up.”

Spock walked towards him slowly, until the weapon was pressed against his chest. Jim squeezed his finger on the trigger.

“I will find you a ship, or arrange for transport. It was a mistake for me to bring you here. It was a mistake that they allowed you to live.”

Focus, Kirk. Don’t look at his eyes. Don’t fucking look at his eyes.

“Jim, put the weapon down. I will find a ship.”

Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

It’s all about timing. Red flags were going off and his brain was spinning, but Jim’s instincts were telling him to put the weapon down. He’d gotten what he wanted. Spock would do it. He was really going to do it.

Jim put his weapon down slowly, half expecting Spock to disarm him.

The Vulcan didn’t. He simply stepped away from Jim, though he didn’t turn his back to him.

“Stay in this room. I will return.”

Jim snorted.

“You do not trust me.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

Spock nodded.

“I will return.”

And true to his word, four hours later, Jim was being smuggled onto a ship, his passage to the edge of the Vulcan Empire bought and paid for by Spock. It wasn’t a crew, but it was still escape. Jim was taking it.

“Swallow this.” Spock gave him a tiny device the size of a fingernail. “If anything happens, regurgitate it and press this button. Can you do that?”

He looked at the device, eyes narrowed.

“What’ll it do?”

“It sends a signal directly to me. Press the button, and I will come for you.”

Like he was ever going to come back to the Fortress. No fucking way. As soon as Jim was at the edge he’d find his contacts and get back to Earth. This thing might come in handy, for setting a trap. The Vulcan High Commander was the Vulcan High Commander. Didn’t matter that he was letting Jim go and confusing as hell.

“It does not work outside of the Vulcan network.”

There were ways of testing that, or getting around it. It might not be what Spock said it was at all. It could kill Jim.

What the hell. If Spock was planning on killing Jim, he could have done it a lot easier and faster than this. Jim stuck the thing in the back of his mouth and swallowed. He was pretty good at throwing up.

He turned to go into the ship.

Spock held up his hand in that Vulcan salute.

They left each other without saying a word.

\--

“He’s not here, Win. The computer logs’re a mess. I think he was here, but bought by a Vulcan. Dock records have Vulcan Fleet here at the same time. Some Vulcan warrior probably got him, took his back to the Fortress.”

“Shit,” Win kicked the ground.

At least there were definite records. She discharged her phaser on one of the bodies twitching on the ground. It stopped moving.

“You really think it’s the Fortress?”

“Yeah.”

Nyota looked at Win. Her Captain had that thoughtful look on her face, that crazy glint in her eye. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Win was thinking.

“Admiralty won’t go for it. They never will, Win. You know that.”

“Admiralty doesn’t win battles,” she smiled. “I do.”

“They still won’t go for it. Not after losing Sulu and Chekov. They think you’re being reckless with Fleet resources.”

Win’s face softened. Sulu and Chekov were really good officers. Her crew was still hurting, losing them.

Lt. Cornwallis came out of the building.

“Got everyone transported out of this hole?” Win asked.

“Yes ma’am. I can’t believe how many slaves went through this place. Must be hundreds a day.”

“Welcome to the Vulcan Empire.”

“Captain!” Nyota pulled Win down.

Oh fuck. Things were going sideways.

Win began discharging her phaser.

“Run run run!”

\--

Jim couldn’t throw up fast enough. Couldn’t hit the button fast enough. Spock couldn’t get to him fast enough. He had no idea if thing actually worked, if Spock was actually coming for him. He had to hope, though. He had to hope, because the situation he found himself in was fucking unbearable.

He was on the auctioning block again. And this time, it was only for sex. Guaranteed.

Self mutilation. He needed to get around to doing that. Jim was entirely too handsome for his own good.

But they were bidding for him, the auctioneer talking a mile a minute, the bids going up on the board. And when he was sold, it was to a name he didn’t recognize.

Spock hadn’t come for him.

What the fuck did Jim expect? What did he expect? That the Vulcan would come in like some sort of legend and rescue Jim?

He would find a way out of this. He found a way out of the last one, he would find a way out of this one. He had more experience now, more weapons he could use. Jim would survive and he would find his way back to Earth. If he could survive T’Pring’s games and charm Spock into letting him escape—Jim doubted he had charmed the Ang’jmizn, but he could pretend—if he could do that once, he could do it again.

When they put a black cloth over his head and took him out with a pinch, Jim was hit with a sense of déjà vu. No way. No fucking way. That bastard.

And this time, Spock visited him in the holding cell.

“It took some effort to track you down.”

He had nothing to say to that. Spock’s dark eyes were on him, thoroughly taking in the sight of him.

At least he had clothes on now.

Spock was tempted to reach out his hand to touch Jim’s face, but he stopped himself before he could act on that impulse.

“T’Pring was displeased to learn you had been kidnapped from my estate.”

Jim jerked his head up.

“You will find that the security has been strengthened considerably.”

He stared. This Vulcan. No fucking sense. They said Kirks were insane. Vulcan’s Ang’jmizn took the cake. There was no reason, no logic in any of this that Jim could see.

“It is fortunate that you thought to construct such an ingenious device. Your intelligence must have been a valuable asset to Starfleet.”

What in the world could he possibly hope to gain from helping Jim like this? And why Jim? Why not someone else? Not that he was complaining, but Spock was either crazy or Jim was really lucky. Or both.

“T’Pring has vowed to make an example of those who forcibly removed you. The smugglers will be executed without trial.”

If they brought in the Interrogators, they’d figure out everything anyway.

“We will arrive on Vulcan in a few days. Rest. This has been unpleasant for us all.”

It occurred to Jim that Spock might have arranged all of this as some elaborate show, a piece of mind fuckery bigger than T’Pring’s.

But... that didn’t seem like Spock. The Vulcan might be insane from Jim’s point of view, but he wasn’t calculating. No, he took that back. Spock was calculating. The most calculating bastard on the battlefield. Jim didn’t think his mind bent to this kind of calculation though.

The rest of the trip, Spock visited him periodically as they made their way to Vulcan. Jim must’ve gotten far before his situation went sideways. The smugglers Spock had hired mutinied against their captain and decided to sell Jim off to a sex trader. He had been so close to escape.

Was it all a set up? Wasn’t it too convenient? The ship Jim happened to be on happened to mutiny, Spock happened to give him a device that would let him know Jim was in trouble.

He couldn’t decide. Slavery, T’Pring, the months that were passing were making him paranoid.

Whenever Spock visited, he didn’t stay long or say much. Jim didn’t say much either.

And despite his suspicions, whatever notions he had about Spock changed. Maybe it was Jim, maybe it was Spock, maybe it was the lighting. He saw things differently.

And he had a feeling that this was only the beginning.

\--

T’Pring was puzzled.

This was the longest period of time that Spock had stayed on the planet, and she felt nothing of his usual restlessness through the bond. In fact, the she felt nothing at all.

It was as though something had settled inside him and he was satisfied with the state of things. He went to the priests regularly and was purified, he met with the Council to plan the grand attack against Terra. Spock insisted on looking over each plan and scrutinizing it with a fine tooth comb, arguing over the most mundane of details. If T’Pring did not know Spock, she would have said that he was purposely delaying his next campaign.

And then there was the slave. He returned with T’Pring with little protest, carried out his former duties. He resumed his habit of visiting Spock’s estate often, but now that the security has been totally overhauled, T’Pring was satisfied that no such insult to herself or Spock would be perpetrated again. The smugglers protested their innocence, but that was nothing new.

She was puzzled by this new order of things.

Perhaps she should not be puzzled at all. After all, this is how it would likely be when she was finally bonded with Spock. He would go out on fewer campaigns, sending out his subordinates. The obedience of a formerly rebellious slave was a new sensation and T’Pring found that she rather liked it, seeing the evidence of her power manifested so thoroughly in another person. Spock’s household and hers were linked and running smoothly.

Yes, this was the order of things. This was the stability the priests spoke of when they said her destiny was written with Spock’s.

There was no doubt that Spock and James were conversing more. She often saw them together, looking over some text or diagram. It was right and fitting that Spock use the human’s intelligence to his advantage. One could never be too prepared when facing an unpredictable enemy and humans were, as T’Pring well knew, unpredictable. Nonetheless, they were supremely teachable, as James proved.

She mused on what the Council would do with their new territory. A portion of the people would be displaced, of course, as it was standard procedure. Most of the displaced would go into slavery. A government would be established, the planet opened for colonization. Yes, Terra would be an excellent addition to their collection of planets.

The priests might even consider allowing Terrans status in society, out of deference to Spock. He was half Terran, after all, and they were greatly indebted to him for bringing such victories to Vulcan. Without him, they might still be warring against the Klingons for dominance of the galaxy.

T’Pring decided that she was satisfied with this arrangement. She had even reconciled herself to the presence of the human. He was not an unprofitable addition to her household. She had had her doubts when Spock presented the human as a gift, but it taught her that she should be more trusting of Spock’s instinct. Instinct—that compulsion he once spoke of—caused him to purchase the human and everything resolved itself in her favor. On the balance, it was worth the insolence and petty looks James had initially directed at her. Look at him now. He was the perfect example of subservience. His intelligence, when trained correctly, was an asset to her household.

Destiny written was unfolding as it should, and T’Pring was pleased with its contents.

\--

Things were going okay since he returned to Vulcan. It could be better—he could be free. If the transport had worked out, he might on Earth right now, planning an attack on Vulcan with Win. But he knew it could be much, much worse.

That knowledge was neither here nor there. Jim was learning to tolerate slavery, put up with what was once an abomination to his being. It horrified him sometimes, the way he was getting used to the Vulcan order of things.

Their Way. That mantra T’Pring and Spock repeated to each other. It terrified him that their Way would become his way.

He kept the dream of freedom alive as fiercely as possible, but Spock was making it really hard to do.

Ever since that incident when Spock helped Jim go free, then brought him back and lied for him to T’Pring and everyone else, things had changed between them. The taint of slavery still hung between them, but it wasn’t so pronounced. Spock treated him—not like an equal, because Jim was beginning to see that Spock had no equal in Vulcan society—Spock treated him differently. Like a companion, maybe. Spock didn’t seem to have any of those, despite his power and status. With the exception of T’Pring, of course.

But it still didn’t make sense to him, what Spock did. There was no reason why Spock, who represented everything that Vulcan stood for, who was raised firmly in the Vulcan way, should and could stand apart from the evil and unjust things of Vulcan society. Jim didn’t believe for a second that Spock would ever regard him as an equal and an individual with a right to his own life and his own freedom. Spock grew up with slaves around him. He was taught, from his first conscious moments, that Vulcan was superior to all others. There was no way a person could get away from attitudes written that deep.

Yet it seemed like maybe he had.

Jim asked him about it. Confronted him. They had had confrontations before, with Jim raising his voice and Spock mostly silent. Or speaking even, neutral tones.

“Why’d you do it?”

Blue eyes were looking at him suspiciously. Spock turned his attention to Jim fully.

“To what are you referring?”

“Everything. Why’d you buy me? And then let me use your place? And free me, then offer to help me?” Jim’s voice got louder and more agitated as he went on. “Was it all a set up? Do you feel guilty about something? What am I, your pet project?”

Defiance was written into every line of Jim’s body.

“You are not a project.”

“Then what the fuck am I?” he yelled, fully aware that Spock was letting him yell, that if he wanted, Spock could have him tied by his thumbs for this display and no one would question him, no one would stop him, no one would say it was wrong.

“I do not know.”

He truly did not know. It was a question he had often asked himself on restless nights. He did not know why he was delaying the campaign to Terra, why he was spending so much time in the Terran’s company. Why he had partially closed the bond to T’Pring. He did not know.

“You are whatever you desire yourself to be,” Spock said.

“Bullshit. Bull. Shit.” Jim only had to point to the gold armbands he was wearing and he won his argument. “I’m whatever you want me to be. So tell me, who am I to you? What do you want me to be?”

Blue eyes blazed at Spock with fury and indignation, with a burning desire to be free.

Spock did not know. He did not know what he wanted Jim to be, only that he recoiled at the thought of changing Jim at all. The way that T’Pring had disciplined him while he was away—he had not sanctioned it, but still thought it cunning of her. It was distasteful, but if Jim ever asked, Spock would have to admit that he objected to the person on which she exercised her power, not the method itself. Spock objected to Jim enslaved, not slavery itself.

But what was special about this Terran that he should make an exception at all? Spock understood that this was the question burning in Jim’s eyes. Why him? Why did Spock go through those lengths for him when clearly, he had never done so in the past and it was doubtful that he would ever do so again in the future? In Jim’s eyes, if one should be free and able to do as they pleased, then should not all others able to have that freedom?

That kind of logic went against everything Vulcan was founded upon. For conquest by its very nature was a matter of superiority, that one civilization had a right to dominate another by virtue of its superior might, technology, philosophy, development, a multiplicity of reasons.  
And here was a single Terran, asking Spock in single statement, what gave Vulcan the right to wield that power at all.

He did not know.

He had never questioned.

It was their Way, and he had always bowed to it.

“I do not know.”

Jim refused to accept that answer.

“Then figure it out,” he spat.

Anger rose. What right did this Terran have to speak in that tone, after all Spock had done for him? What right did this human have to challenge his authority, look at Spock with that gaze in his own house? None. He was a slave who had never known the Vulcan Way, an alien who could never understand the truth. He spoke thus only because Spock allowed it, he was clothed and sheltered only because Spock had bought him. T’Pring was right. He had been altogether too indulgent with the Terran.

“I will not allow you to question me in this manner.”

So this is where Spock drew the line. Jim knew it wasn’t real. That deep down inside, Spock was just like every other fucking supercilious oppressive bloodthirsty tyrannical Vulcan. What was it his mom always said about absolute power?

“Yeah?” Jim got up in Spock’s face. “Then why don’t you try and stop me.”

Vulcan’s finest Ang’jmizn, commander of entire fleets, conqueror of worlds, trained and dedicated to the service of the Vulcan Way, destined to rule the galaxy, challenged by a Terran slave. It was unthinkable.

Spock was about to lash out, take this insolent human and squeeze the very breath out of his life. No one would question him, no one would stop him, and no one say he was in the wrong. It would be his power, absolute, over an individual who dared to claim he was Spock’s equal in every way, who dared to challenge his perceptions of the world and force him to reconsider the whole of his upbringing. The power to kill, the power to silence that voice and eliminate it forever was intoxicating. And it was his right.

But something inside him fought against that impulse. Something compelled him to control himself, to resist the calling, the sweet song of absolute power.

It was his right. It was his _right_.

No. It was not his right. It never had been his right, and never would be. With other slaves, he could claim his power without qualm, without doubt. With other slaves, he commanded total obedience.

With this slave, he could not. He did not know why.

Spock made a decision.

He stepped back, dark eyes on Jim.

“Leave,” he said, voice hoarse.

Jim remained where he was, amazed that he was still standing.

“Leave!”

He had no idea what went on in Spock’s mind for those few seconds, but he didn’t need to be told a third time. Jim left.

\--

“Spock, will you not dine with me tonight?”

“I must meditate.”

“It is the third night of your meditation. What are your questions, that you so fervently seek answers?”

“T’Pring,” Spock turned her to her, eyes dark. “Have you ever—was there ever a time when you doubted the sanctity of our destiny? The destiny of Vulcan?”

“What doubt can there be? We have the Enlightenment, our Way is that of truth and justice. It is right, Spock.”

T’Pring’s gaze was silver.

“But I have seen, in my campaigns, the way that others live. I have met the mind of our opponents and could it not be that their way is true as well?”

Spock’s thoughts alarmed her, but they were not wholly unexpected. T’Pau had warned that Spock would enter a time of doubt. Every Ang’jmizn in the past had done so, when the weight of all the wars and the thought of all the casualties sank in. It would pass. T’Pring had only to guide Spock through this valley of darkness.

“If their way were true, why do they not stand conqueror? If their way were right, why is it Vulcan that rules the galaxy?”

“Might can never make right,” Spock shook his head. These were all arguments he had considered before, and arguments that insufficiently answered his questions.

“Might does not make right, but right will always aid force that is just.”

“That argument is circular.”

“What other argument can there be, Spock? You and I have already traced the history of our ancestors. You know the grandeur of their cause, you know the state of the barbarian worlds. Our destiny is written, Spock. It has been, and it always shall be, thus. The supremacy of logic will triumph over chaos, we bring order to that which was nothing.”

T’Pring touched Spock’s face. His expression was troubled, but she would be the surety that he sought. She would be the guiding silver light that he looked to in this time of questioning.

“It is our Way.”

Spock looked at her.

“It is our Way,” he repeated.

The doubt lingered. She knew it would not leave in one day, but T’Pring would see that his mind was eased. He would dine with her that night.

“Spock, these doubts are logical.”

“They are?” he asked, surprised.

Doubt had never been included in his education. Only the surety of duty, honor, victory. Vulcan.

“It is natural. Soon, you will be on the Buk, waging war against the Terrans, yet you are half Terran yourself.”

“I am Vulcan, trained in our Ways.”

T’Pring nodded.

“But blood is blood, and you know well that it has a mind of its own.”

Spock shuddered. Of course. Blood called to its own.

“T’Pau has said that your father, before he began the campaign against the Klingons, had similar doubts.”

T’Pau told her of the endless days that Sarek had meditated, tortured by questions to which he had no answer. He never told T’Pau the nature of his questioning. The only person he would admit into his presence was the human, the woman from which Spock’s Terran heritage was formed.

“He died in that struggle.”

“He conquered his doubts. You took up his mantle and finished the fight.”

There was a time when he took comfort in T’Pring’s surety, her confidence in their Ways. But she had not seen as he had seen, she did not feel the same compulsion. What answers could she give to his questions, to his doubts? Spock wasn’t sure there were any answers to be found.

“Do not fear. Our Way is true and certain, and you will return to it,” she pressed her fingers to his. “It is written.”

“It is written,” Spock whispered.

Nothing was written. This human, Jim, was not written. He was compelling, he was pulling.

Spock shook his head. He would never give up his honor and duty. It was his life, his very katra. He served Vulcan, and was honored to be chosen in that service.

“Come, Spock. Leave these questions and dine with me tonight.”

He followed.

And on the other side of the wall was Jim, blue eyes glowing. He’d heard everything.

\--

“Is your name symbolic or something?” Nyota grabbed Cornwallis’s hair and yanked his head back. “Cornwallis. He was a traitor too, did you know? The American Revolution. Know any history, Cornwallis?”

She put her arms around his neck in a chokehold, her lips right by his ear.

“Maybe it’s a family trait. Runs in the blood.”

The guy was about to pass out. Nyota let go and he gasped for breath.

“How much did they pay you?”

His chest was still heaving, inhale exhale.

She twisted his elbow just so and he started screaming.

“ _How much!_ ”

Screaming and screaming.

Nyota was losing it, his screams mixing with the memory of Win’s screams, telling them to run, get back to the shuttle, run and the yells of pain.

 _Jim, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry._

And Win. There were no words. Nyota was still numb from the shock.

They couldn’t afford this. Not now, not when there were rumors that Vulcans were getting ready to send their pride and prowess to Earth.

 _I’ll find him, Win. I swear I’ll find him._

But she had other priorities now.

Captain Nyota Uhura.

She shook her head, realizing that she’d snapped the lieutenant’s elbow.

Anger surged. Fucking James Tiberius Kirk. If he’d never gotten caught. If Win weren’t so obsessed. They needed Win. They needed her. Entire battles could hinge on her decisions, but Win couldn’t let go of Jim.

Everything had hinged on Jim. Jim, lost to the Fortress. And now Win with him.

Captain Nyota Uhura. She had other priorities. Sobs and heaving pants mixed with memory. She couldn’t afford to lose it. She couldn’t afford to lose it. Nyota looked at the security officers next to her.

“Take care of this piece of shit.”

They nodded.

No looking back.

Captain Nyota Uhura.

No mercy for traitors.


	4. Act III

“Where’d you pick this one up?”

They were in the Object Room. Jim held up the two dimensional vid player and turned on the music. It grew on him, the opera. He liked the second act best. The tune of the parade was familiar.

“It was intended as a gift to T’Pring.”

Jim laughed at the irony of that.

“What, she didn’t like it?”

“The music is distinct from the traditions of Vulcan.”

“It’s not your ‘way’,” he said sarcastically.

“It is not,” Spock agreed.

“Then why’d you keep it?”

Spock didn’t answer.

He did that a lot. Jim was learning how to gauge the thousand qualities of his silences. He looked around the room again, the sight familiar. The whole room was full of stuff.

“I used to tinker around with machines,” Jim said.

Spock nodded.

“That is how you were able to fix the Tellarite weapon.”

He shrugged.

“It’s come in handy once or twice.”

Spock was staring at the vid player as though it held all the answers to a thousand questions. The Triumphal March was unfolding on the screen, slow and spectacular.

“Tell me about your planet.”

“Earth?” Jim couldn’t help the surprise in his voice. “You want me to tell you about Earth?”

“Yes.”

“Look, you’re not going to get any kind of useful intel from me. The Interrogators took all of that anyway.”

“I am not asking for tactical information. I have all the maps and coordinates of the Terran system that I need.”

Whatever. Jim rolled with it.

“What do you want to know? It’s your average class M planet, three quarters of the surface is covered with water, most of the land is on the northern hemisphere. I’ve been a few places, but mostly I’ve been in space. Was born there.”

Win. Was she looking for him? Was she okay? Jim pushed that thought away.

“I don’t know. Earth’s a lot greener than Vulcan. There’s more water everywhere, in the air, in the ground. I was planetside mostly when I was a kid, then joined up with Starfleet when I was fifteen.”

“I was not aware that Starfleet allowed recruits that young. You were not yet a legal adult.”

“I had the aptitude for it. They put me in a training program, packed me off to space,” he kept his speech deliberately vague. The Interrogators might’ve taken everything, but he wasn’t going to spill his guts just because Spock asked. Old habits die hard.

And turnabout’s fair play.

“What about you? Has this always been your home?”

“It has been in my family for three thousand one hundred and forty-one years.”

Jim blinked.

“That’s longer than Earth’s Common Era and post-Warp combined.”

“It is.”

“So your family’s been conquering planets for Vulcan all three thousand years?”

“No. Only in the past seven generations did we begin to serve Vulcan in a military capacity.”

Jim whistled.

“My family’s been in Starfleet for four generations. Seven’s a lot. Does everyone go into the family business? You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”

“I had a half brother who died in campaigns. My father also died in battle against the Klingons.”

“And your mom?”

He watched Spock carefully. He’d heard T’Pring talk about Spock’s Terran blood—that came out of fucking nowhere and left his head spinning with the implications, ways he might be able to use that, if he could at all. If Spock was part human, he didn’t show any of it. Vulcan owned him, one hundred percent.

“The woman who contributed her genetic material to my conception was a Terran.”

The fact that Spock didn’t bother to hide it surprised him.

“You didn’t know her?”

“No. Neither did I know my father. I was trained according to the plan of the Council and the dictations of the priests.”

No wonder Spock was so single minded about Vulcan and his duties. Then again. Jim had practically lived and breathed Starfleet since he could crawl. He wasn’t one to talk.

“When’d you captain your first ship?”

“At the age of thirteen.”

Holy shit. Holy _shit_.

“You mean when the Klingons surrendered—?”

“I was seventeen. T’Pau thought it prudent that I gain experience before I finished my father’s war.”

Jim tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. The Vulcans were thorough. Everyone in the galaxy knew that. He hadn’t realize just _how_ thorough they could be.

Then he remembered T’Pring, her ways of conditioning Jim. Did they do that to Spock? Did he ever rebel? He was part human—there had to be some part of him that hated this grip they had on his person, on his mind, on the path of his life. There had to be some part of him that wanted to be free as much as Jim wanted to be back in space, coming and going as he pleased.

He looked at the opera, music sounding from the weird little speakers.

“What’s this opera about anyway? I don’t understand any of it.”

Spock looked at him, eyes dark.

“It is about conquest and love,” Spock paused. He stared at the little figures on the screen.

“Sounds interesting.”

He’d figured as much.

Spock fixed his eyes on Jim once more. That look. It was... disturbing. Jim found himself staring back.

“It is about betrayal.”

\--

T’Pring watched Spock, gaze silver. He was reading a report in front of her, completely composed and unremarkable.

Desire blossomed in her. Her own datapad lay idle in her hands while she took in his every feature. It was said that his father Sarek was a handsome Vulcan, and that the human was a beauty. Spock had been gifted the same angular features of Sarek, yet his face was not harsh. The sharp lines were tempered by soft curves. T’Pring thought there was a quiet magnificence to him. The knowledge of his power and the weapon that was his mind enhanced his physical features.

Hers. Spock would be hers.

If only the priests would set a date for their bonding. T’Pau was, for reasons T’Pring vehemently disagreed with, hesitant to bond them. She had some irrational fear that after the bonding, Spock would no longer be an effective Ang’jmizn. It was a stupid superstition, one of the few that T’Pau held. The High Councilor had lost Sarek after he took the Terran as a consort. She illogically blamed his death on the death of the human.

T’Pring had thought many times of the night of their bonding, how it would be. She imagined what it would be like to finally be joined with Spock in both mind and body. That glorious intelligence and blade-like body would be hers, and she would be his. Vulcan’s power—her power and Spock’s power—would only grow after they were bonded. It was written. The prospect of the universe at their feet, T’Pring standing like a beacon of silver at Spock’s right hand, the awe of that vision thrilled her. Spock’s fleets would order the planets, T’Pring’s laws would order their lives.

Spock sat perfectly still before her, dark eyes absorbing the texts with cool efficiency.

She wanted to reach out to him, trace her fingers to his face, share in that intimacy and know the complete meaning of the dark look behind his eyes.

In time. It would all come in its time. It was enough that he was on Vulcan at all. She couldn’t remember the last time they had been able to sit in each other’s presence like this, quiet and knowing. All that was written would come true, and T’Pring would have her prize, their dreams, Vulcan’s glory.

“James,” she called.

He came immediately.

Spock looked up from his reading.

“I attend,” James said, words enunciated exactly as she taught him.

“Have Yttries bring tea. Spock?”

He was still looking at James. The human kept his focus on T’Pring. The change really was remarkable. T’Pring knew power—she had grown up learning to wield it for the good of Vulcan. But this power was different. She toyed with the idea of obtaining herself another slave like James and finding new ways to discipline such rebellious creatures. Other Vulcans had spoken of the satisfaction they experienced punishing an errant slave. Perhaps their perspectives were not without merit.

Spock flicked his eyes to her, then back to James.

“I require nothing.”

He resumed his reading.

T’Pring waved her hand and James left the room.

Of course, she had visited households that beat their slaves excessively. T’Pring thought it uncouth that the marks of punishment should be so visible. Besides, while docility was important, there had to be a certain amount of agency intact in the slaves so that they could perform their necessary tasks without constant supervision. A totally broken slave was an inefficient one, and therefore of little use or value. She sometimes envied the management of Spock’s estate. It hardly needed his oversight and the stewards made considered, if somewhat conservative, decisions with respect to finances, investments, development of properties on colonies, dealings with various tenants. His estate was a self sufficient kingdom, the slaves had served the family for generations, the trade passed down from elder to younger.

No, it was not true that Spock’s estate was completely self sufficient. T’Pau and T’Pring often made decisions on Spock’s behalf when he was on his campaigns. T’Pring already had extensive plans on how she and Spock would integrate their households and combine their assets.  
Yttries entered and poured the tea. T’Pring idly continued her thoughts.

James had proved to be a surprisingly good steward. With additional training, she might increase his responsibilities. And there was the fact that he was attractive. She could pair him with one of her handmaids. They would produce valuable children, some of which she might sell.

“Yttries, a glass of port.”

She took her tea and glanced at Spock. He suddenly looked tired.

“Is everything all right?”

He regarded T’Pring strangely.

“It is nothing.”

Yttries returned with Spock’s glass. T’Pring watched as he drained the glass.

“Tell me. Something weighs on your mind.”

Silence.

A dark gaze.

“When did you become so calculating?”

“I do not understand.”

“Your mind, T’Pring. It is like a silver machine.”

Emotions rose inside her with such intensity that it surprised her. She did not know why she should react this way.

T’Pring regarded Spock coolly, eyes flashing with emotion.

“As long as it is an efficient one.”

\--

T’Pring stared at herself in the mirror.

A silver machine. What could he mean by those words?

She looked at her own features, hair loose and flowing.

She resented those words, though she did not know why.

In the reflection, her eyes glinted with emotion, desires submerged. She remembered once, early in her training, longing to join Spock in space. He would have adventures while she was to remain on Vulcan, dealing with the circuitous politics that ruled the Council and the priests. T’Pring asked Spock to take her along on his first campaign and he solemnly swore he would.

T’Pau prevented them from executing the plan.

“It is not thy place, T’Pring. Thy path is written in the sands of Vulcan, and Spock is bound to the stars. Together, thou shalt serve the honor of Vulcan.”

She had protested, but T’Pau fixed an immovable stare on her.

“It is our Way, child.”

A thousand emotions burned inside her.

“It is our Way.”

\--

The more time Spock spent with Jim, the more he noticed things about him. There was the light in his blue eyes—Spock had always seen that. The fierce intensity had compelled him.

No. Other details struck him now. The light of his smile. The fullness of his lips. The strength of his hands. The shape of his fingernails. The curve of his shoulder. The tapering of his neck.

Jim’s mind was as brilliant as ever, a force of its own. Now, it was Jim’s body that Spock began to appreciate. His eyes lingered. He looked on the Terran longer, gazed wandered over Jim’s body.

This was the quality for which Jim was not executed. His physical appeal, the desirability. That is why he was sold. Perhaps it was a reason why Spock bought him twice.

Jim wasn’t an idiot. He saw the way Spock was looking at him. In some ways he was flattered. Vulcan’s Ang’jmizn, seduced by a human slave. And not just any human slave, but Jim. It was about time Spock realized how attractive Jim was.

In some ways he was flattered, but mostly he was angry. Because he was a slave, and Spock thought he had a right to look. Took for granted that he had a right to enjoy Jim’s body, whether it was in looks or fucks. What should have been freely given and received was twisted.

And Jim would be damned before he let Spock touch him.

\--

“You want me.”

Jim looked at him, blue eyes like ice.

Spock could not deny it. Did not want to deny it.

“I am drawn to you.”

Jim positioned his body just so, gold armbands prominently displayed.

“Then why don’t you take what you want.”

“Do you truly believe I would do that?”

After all the time they had spent together, both in silence and in sound, could Jim truly believe that Spock would force him? He regretted that the Interrogators did not kill Jim immediately the day they captured him.

“I’m a slave. You can do anything you want. No one’s gonna stop you.”

The words jarred Spock, coming out of Jim’s mouth so softly and viciously. He had never entered into such interactions before. Spock knew consciously that beings were coerced into performing sexual acts, that some Vulcans and other aliens had many such slaves to indulge their pleasures. He had never faced it before, never sought to look deeper into the practice. What happened in other households did not concern him. He was planning his next campaign, he was satisfied with his bond with T’Pring. His destiny was in another way.

“I can’t stop you. So why don’t you _do it_.”

Jim would make him see. He’d wrench the knife in as far as he could. Spock finally wanted him sexually, and fuck it if he’d just lie down and let the Vulcan do what he wanted.

He walked towards Spock slowly, somehow managing to exude erotic sensuality.

“You like what you see? Want to take it?”

It didn’t matter, whatever understanding they’d managed to build. None of that mattered in the face of the reality, the systematic removal of Jim’s rights to anything, including his body. He threw the fact that he was slave in Spock’s face because it was _nothing_ compared to being a slave. It was _nothing_ compared to the knowledge, the fear that he could be used any way Spock or T’Pring or any Vulcan wanted, and he had no say. No rights. No protection. All of it, the degradation and cruelty, the injustice and evil, legally sanctioned.

“You want me. You can fuck me any way you want and no one can stop you.”

The fact that he had it pretty good in T’Pring’s estate didn’t make it any better. It made it fucking worse. It made it a hundred times worse. And the way that she used that child, the way that she manipulated Jim was nothing compared to what others did. Jim had never seen up close and personal, but he knew. And he could imagine.

Spock just stood there. Stood there with dark eyes, taking in Jim’s every movement.

That fucker. That motherfucker.

Jim whispered into the Vulcan’s curved ear.

“No one can stop you. You like that the feeling of absolute power. Taking anything you want from me or anyone else. You _love_ it.”

Had Spock ever really seen? On his campaigns of glory, in his Processions of honor, parading slaves and captives in front of everyone gathered, had he ever understood?

No. Spock was a conqueror, through and through. He lived his life totally free. And in that total freedom, he never even considered what it meant to be a slave.

It was their Way.

Slavery had never looked so intoxicatingly tempting before. To hold Jim and subject him to whatever he desired. To own all his pleasure and pain, wrenched from the human’s body. A slave, unable to do anything to prevent whatever acts performed on its body, compelled to do whatever it was ordered, utterly dominated and forced into submission. Absolute power had a dark appeal, its song a sweet siren. It held out every possibility, the fulfillment of his every wish and whim.

At the price of the total and involuntary degradation of another.

Coerced, unwilling.

That was the fact that Jim threw in Spock’s face, the immutable reality he flaunted with every movement of his body. His will, his uncompromised claim to freedom burned in his blue eyes and would not let Spock go. Jim’s gaze measured him, judged him, and found him absolutely wanting.

Spock recoiled.

Slavery had never looked so ugly before.

And he knew with startling clarity that before this slave, before this human, before Jim, he could never do it. He could never take what was lawfully his because what was lawful was not right, and what was right was impossible, in this context. The taint of slavery would always hang between them. Whether that taint was strong or weak, it did not matter. It would always be present.

Asking Jim, assuring Jim of Spock’s intentions, was meaningless. It was not a concession, only a reinforcement of Spock’s power, for he could choose to deal with Jim in that manner. Jim had no choice but to obey Spock on whatever terms were set. The form could never compensate for the underlying content of the interaction.

That knowledge shook him. No matter how much Spock desired Jim or was drawn to him, he could not, he would not do it. Vulcan had already taken what was never theirs to take.

Spock stepped away from Jim.

Any other person, Spock might not have seen. Any other person and he might have been able to justify himself by the manner in which he executed those actions. Justify himself by his right as a Vulcan, as a conqueror.

Jim made slavery an absolute. He put it between them and laid out to Spock that nothing mitigated the fact that he was a slave, that Spock held mastery over him. He made it clear that as far as he was concerned, sex could never be about anything other than power, and anything deeper was out of the question. Submission by either side was meaningless if the initial terms were unequal in the first place. Another time, another place, where he and Spock were both free, he might consider it. But not here. Never here.

“Why. don’t. you. just. take. it.”

Spock had no answer to that.

Jim sneered.

This is where he drew the line. This is where they could never cross to meet each other.

“James,” T’Pring’s voice called. “Attend.”

Jim got up and left.

When he was gone, Spock closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.

Slavery had never looked so ugly before.

\--

Spock was suddenly eager to go back out to space again. T’Pring did not need the bond to see it. He spent most of his time away from his estate, going through inspection routines, reviewing the plans drawn up with a new intensity. The priests also reported that he was with them much of the time, undergoing rituals of purification. He delayed their attack on Terra, claiming that their intelligence was not sufficient for an assured victory. Instead, he would go deep in space to reinforce their borders. Reports indicated that the Cardassians were stirring talks of rebellion. He would go there and strengthen their position, expedite the construction of their bases.

The priests consulted the Scrolls and found that Spock’s decision was logical. Conditions for an attack on Terra would be more favorable at a later date.

T’Pring tried to speak to the priests and T’Pau about the matter of bonding, but they would not hear her. The bonding must come after grand victory, during an auspicious occasion. T’Pau’s influence was great in this matter. Her silly belief had infected some of the other older council members, those who remembered Sarek and his sudden death. It frustrated T’Pring to no end. Nevertheless, she bowed to their will.

It was their Way.

She noted that Spock also spent a considerable amount of time with Khart-lan Stonn, one of his deputies. Spock had mentioned him a few times to T’Pring, stating that Stonn showed much promise. He was a steady commander and solid tactician. T’Pring saw the measure of Stonn in one silver glance. He was an excellent officer, but he was not Spock. No one could ever be Spock. No one, except perhaps the child T’Pring hoped to bear one day. She pushed that thought aside, instead focusing on assisting Spock with his Cardassian operations.

All conversation and almost all contact with James ceased. T’Pring did not think it odd. Spock had no need of his services or any information the human might provide. He was away from his estate for most of the time in any case. In truth, she was relieved that Spock was no longer in the company of the human. Not only was such an association improper, but she could not help but think that some form of attachment had been developing between them. Likely Spock recognized that as well and took the right and prudent course of action.

But... something was lacking in her interactions with Spock.

He paid her every attention. When he was not occupied, they spent the time together. T’Pring told him of her day and he replied in all the appropriate places and recounted the state of his affairs in turn. He attended every dinner with her, she even convinced him to make an appearance at several political functions. Spock usually shunned them as he found them tiring. Politics was her realm, not his. Yet it was as though his mind was now occupied by a machine. He operated by the age old tenets of duty, honor, logic, Vulcan, but what was once his source of inspiration and the substance of his dreams was a rusted sword.

For reasons unknown, T’Pring thought of that strange little box Spock had brought from Altair. She knew it was a machine and knew that she might be able to take the box apart, put it back together, study its components.

But inside, she feared there might be a sound. Alien music wholly corrupted, disturbing yet compelling in its own dark way.

\--

“It is our Way.”

Spock took what solace he could in those words. They had guided and upheld him all his life. The Way represented everything he fought for, protected, believed in. He had come this far following its tenets. It was all he had left.

He repeated to himself the ritual of honor, the words he spoke whenever he came back to Vulcan after a successful campaign.

“Thou hand returned glorious. Vulcan honors thee.”

Glory. Vulcan. Honor.

“I am honored by Vulcan.”

Honor. Vulcan. Service.

“Thou hast defeated our enemies by the might of logic.”

Might. Logic. Conquest.

“Our enemies are defeated. May Vulcan live eternal.”

Life. Vulcan. Conquest.

“Thou art the sword of Vulcan. Thy blade is sharp.”

Sword. Blade. Vulcan.

“I am the instrument of order. My life I dedicate to the protection of our Way.”

Order. Life. Way.

“Thou has returned victorious. Vulcan honors thee.”

Victory. Vulcan. Honor.

“I am honored by Vulcan. My life I lay down in her service.”

Honor. Vulcan. Service.

Service for conquest, honor won in victory, glory in the might of logic, the Vulcan blade granting order to life, the Vulcan way granting life to the sword.

His entire life, dedicated to a Way he did not question, fighting for an order he never doubted, glorying in honor he thought untainted, victorious in conquest he thought unblemished.

And the vision of one Terran standing before him, challenging his blade of absolute power armed with nothing but his bare hands unshackled, staring at him with blue eyes burning with freedom.

“It is our Way.”

Spock reined himself in and prepared for his next campaign.

\--

Spock entered his quarters, exhausted after a long day inspecting the ships and overseeing the assembly of the various crews. He stripped off his robes before he realized that someone was in his quarters.

“Show yourself,” he commanded.

A man stepped out from where he stood.

Spock was silent.

Blue eyes took in his naked form. Spock simply stood in place as Jim walked around him. His eyes met Jim’s and he could not read what he saw there.

He did not know what to make of this Terran, physically or mentally. His dreams tortured him with images, sensations he could never have and would never allow himself to take. His thoughts hounded him with questions of his entire upbringing, the destiny that priests, the Council, T’Pau, T’Pring, Vulcan, his father, his family had written into him. The fate that he had once accepted and believed.

In eight days he would be back to his Way. The only Way he knew, the Way he was taught. The Way he could no longer desire. The Way he could never give up.

Jim broke the silence.

“I make one pass at you and you avoid me for weeks afterwards? And run away to your fiancée? I think I should be insulted.”

This Terran. Spock did not know what to make of him.

“I have been occupied making plans for—”

Jim put his fingers to Spock’s lips.

Spock watched him with dark eyes.

Watched as Jim stepped back and took off his clothes. Watched Jim fumble picking at the clasps of his gold armbands.

Spock stepped forward.

“If I may?”

Jim nodded and held out his right arm, then his left, and felt the bands slip off.

It was a fucking good feeling.

He kissed Spock, hand to hand, mouth to mouth.

It was—Spock felt he might fall apart—he did not understand how this sudden reversal came about and without that understanding, he couldn’t. Jim had made his position clear the last time the confronted one another and he could see no reason, no logic why Jim should suddenly come to him in this manner. It made no sense. His worldview had suffered enough upheavals in the past months that he could not accept this without knowing the motivation, the justification.

“Jim,” he gasped and stepped away. “I cannot—”

Jim was dragging his thumb along the back of Spock’s hand, making him shudder—

“Jim, I cannot. I will not take—”

“You’re not,” Jim stepped forward. “I want this too.”

He kissed Spock again, tongue to tongue, wrists to wrists.

Spock broke away again.

“Why?”

Eyes dark with desire but he could see Spock reining everything in.

He had an answer. The right words.

“You’re too sexy for your own good. Can’t I want you and act on that, if you want me too?”

Because isn’t that how it is, when the terms are equal?

Spock didn’t say anything.

No yes or no, no permission granted or revoked, nothing. Just looks and comprehension.

He kissed Jim, lips to lips, thumbs to thumbs.

And in the new space of Spock’s rooms, Jim found new possibilities, and reclaimed a part of freedom.

\--

They met in Spock’s quarters every night before he had to leave.

Eight nights was not nearly enough for Jim. Months had passed since he became a slave and T’Pring’s conditioning had seeped through the cracks, eroded away at his memory. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be free—he would never forget that. But he had forgotten the sting of it. The exhilarating bite wanting something and being able to _act_ on it exactly as he pleased, instead of clamping down on desire.

Eight nights was an entire world for Spock. It was a rush, a dam crumbling after water pounded away and widened the cracks year after year. He felt things, wanted things, thought of things he had never felt, wanted, or thought before. The time with Jim opened another spectrum of possibilities, beyond the Way of duty and honor. He was overwhelmed by the surge and the _freedom_ of the experience.

“Don’t go,” Jim said to him the last night.

Spock looked at Jim with his dark eyes.

“I hate it here. I hate those,” he pointed to the gold armbands. “Don’t go.”

Spock kissed him.

“I will return.”

It was his Way.

\--

“Be victorious, Spock,” T’Pring pressed her fingers against his.

He regarded her, eyes solemn and grave.

A thousand emotions rose inside her. Desire, memory, sudden longing to rid herself of her politics and silver facade, to take him by the hand and go with him into the dark reaches of space. The bond between them was fading. She could feel it.

T’Pring wanted to touch her hand to his face, wanted to give him assurance, wanted to be the silver light to his darkness. But she did not. Time, space, silver machines and silver honor, a thousand different things she could not name stood between them.

He held up the ta’al.

She mirrored his action.

And then he was gone.

\--

When Spock returned from his Cardassian campaigns, he had two gifts—one for T’Pring, and one for Jim.

To T’Pring, he gave a bolt of delicate silver cloth that she might have fashioned into a garment of her preference. She was pleased with the gift, pleased with Spock’s quick return, and pleased to see his dark eyes warm and alive again. She had feared that the time away and the distance between them would lead to Spock’s further withdrawal, but it seemed to be the opposite. Perhaps Spock truly was a Vulcan bred for space. He must return there to be revitalized. He dined with her, spoke with her in pleasant tones, asked after her household. It was almost like the days when they were children.

He asked her no more questions about the Way and seemed reconciled to his destiny. All was proceeding as it was written.

To Jim, he gave, in the privacy of his quarters, a look, a touch, a kiss, a smile. And a set of completely Terran civilian clothes. T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans, and boots.

Jim gave him a weird look.

“When would I ever wear these?”

“If you ever get a chance to escape.”

“Don’t you think it’d be a huge giveaway?”

“The clothes you wear right now are even bigger giveaway.”

“Huh. Good point. I could just steal something from your closet.”

“All of my robes are tailor made and carry my insignia. I assure you, it would not assist you in escaping.”

Jim fingered the leather jacket.

“Okay,” he said softly. Then smiled. “Come on.”

He slipped out of his clothes. Spock quickly did the same.

In between kisses and moans, Jim managed to whisper

“I’ve missed you.”

In between touches and tastes, Spock managed to reply

“And I you.”

\--

“Why do you have the Object Room at all?”

“T’Pring started the collection, when we were children.”

Jim shifted at the mention of T’Pring. Things hadn’t been bad while Spock was away. But Jim would never accept what she did. Never stop wanting to be free of her silver gaze.

“She was not always as she is now.”

He didn’t say anything to that. There was nothing Spock could say that would change Jim’s mind.

“There was a plant—a white desert plant she had found one day in her excursions outside Shikahr—that T’Pring wanted to hide from her father and mother. I provided a location. The Object Room became a place we hid anything that was disapproved of.”

“How much of that stuff is T’Pring’s?”

“None. She has no need to use my space any longer. T’Pring has built her own garden. Have you not seen it?”

“No.”

And he had no interest in seeing it.

“It is quite remarkable, the collection of species she has managed to cultivate.”

“Can we stop talking about T’Pring? I want to know why you’ve got all that stuff in there.”

“Most are objects I found during my campaigns. I do not know why I brought them back. They are obsolete.”

“So? I told you I used to tinker around. Not everything useful is new.”

A pause.

“Some are pieces of hybrid technology.”

“Really?”

“Failed and successful attempts to cobble together two disparate technologies to create something new. I was interested in which designs were effectively integrated and which were not, and the reasons for those outcomes.”

“Found anything?”

“No,” Spock shrugged. “Each case was different. Generalizations could not be applied.”

“And the other stuff? What about the vid player?”

“It was a gift to T’Pring—I believe I already informed you of this.”

“I know it was a gift, but why that one? Why’d you keep it?”

Spock gave a half shrug.

“It was the music, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps. I do not know.”

“Here’s a question,” Jim grinned.

Spock raised his eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Why’d you buy me? Why’d you let me go? And why’d you come back for me?”

A pause.

“I do not know. Perhaps the same reason why I kept the vid player and its music.”

Spock shifted his position.

“Enough,” he kissed Jim, hands wandering on his body. “I must meet with the Council soon. I have a little more time, and I will make use of it.”

Jim smiled, blue eyes brilliant.

“Fine by me.”

\--

Spock couldn’t remember a time in his life like this.

Perhaps in his early years, when he and T’Pring snuck away from their numerous teachers, went outside the city walls and explored the unknown vastness of the desert and canyons. T’Pring had led, skipping along the sands, her hair coming free of its elaborate setting, silver jewelry scattered along the way. Spock ran after her, getting dust on his robes, ripping holes into the delicate fabric as he climbed over rocks. They discovered caves and pretended they were on planets far away, facing monsters and bringing order to the galaxy.

Spock fought imaginary enemies, T’Pring crowned him with imaginary wreaths of honor. They spoke the ritual of honor together, solemnly repeating the fated words and then bursting out into helpless giggles.

They were also always found and promptly returned to their estates. T’Pring’s mother and father looked on sternly and did not need to express their disapproval for the wild state of her hair, the silver ornaments lost. It was evident. T’Pau also looked at him with heavy silence, taking in the sight of scraped elbows, torn knees, red smeared all over his hands and dusting his face. T’Pring once said it made him look more Terran, the dust of the red desert.

“Do you find it disturbing?”

“No,” she smiled, trying to control the intensity of that expression and failing. “I like it.”

But T’Pau made it clear that Spock had no time for games or play. His duty was to Vulcan, his life was upholding its honor. He did not protest, nor did T’Pring. She had rebelled once, objecting openly, and was severely punished for it. It was their Way.

It was their Way and it was written, but none of the Scrolls, nothing in logic dictated that this would happen. That Jim would come into their lives and change everything.

He felt as though he was in the desert again, chasing the wind, discovering a cave, cautiously exploring all the contours of a once familiar place. He felt the same wonder as he had the first time they took him out to space and he looked out to that vastness. The Khart-lan of the vessel had seen his expression of wonder. The Khart-lan pointed to the stars and the pinpricks of light, naming each one. He told him which were part of the Vulcan territories, which lay outside, which ones had Vulcan warriors stationed to guard them, which ones they were fighting for. Spock imagined briefly it was what his father would have told him, had he lived to see that moment.

“All this and more, will be yours,” the Khart-lan said.

Spock thirsted after those lights, that black space.

And he remembered T’Pau taking him to another part of the view and pointing.

She pointed to Vulcan.

“Thy life thou givest to the service of Vulcan. Thy life thou dedicatest to the honor of our Way.”

He nodded.

She touched his shoulder and in a moment that would never be repeated, her voice grew soft and gentle.

“Is she not beautiful, Spock?”

Spock looked up at T’Pau, but she was staring at Vulcan, an inscrutable expression on her face. She gripped his arm tighter in the closest gesture T’Pau would ever come to a caress.

“That is our home.”

He said nothing, the silence between them deep.

“That is our Way,” she whispered.

Spock looked out at the blackness.

“It is our Way,” he repeated.

And for reasons he could not fathom, he suddenly saw the image of a girl in the middle of the desert, the sky black above them. She was staring up at the stars, her feet unshod, skin touching the fine sand. Her arms were bare and she felt the subtle stirrings of the night air. She stared up at the stars, feet planted in the ground, arms spread to catch the wind.

Remembering the image of the girl, Spock could not distinguish if she was T’Pau or T’Pring.

\--

Jim was falling, and falling fast. Freefalling down from amazing heights kind of fast. He’d felt it before, he knew the signs. This was bad. This was really fucking bad.

He hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t seen in coming. Like everything else about Spock, this hit Jim out of left field and left him spinning. When he went to Spock that night, he seriously didn’t meant for it to escalate like this. It was a statement, he was proving something to himself and to Spock. It was an impulse. It was the fact that he hadn’t been laid for a while and Spock was available. Spock was dark, hot, powerful, compelling. That was a heady combination for anyone and it turned Jim on like nothing else.

It was the fact that Spock treated Jim differently from the beginning, the fact that Spock let Jim make rules, make space, define himself, find a measure of freedom. Seriously, that night and the nights that followed were a lot of things, but they were not about falling. Not like this.

But Jim was falling, and falling bad.

He couldn’t stop it. Didn’t know if he wanted to. He knew he should, because with Spock back, the plan to attack Earth was back on track and they were getting ready. Spock was planning, looking over intel, meeting with his officers. The Fleet was getting outfitted with updates. Politicians were jockeying for position to become the next governor of what they anticipated would be the next Vulcan colony. He should not be falling, he should be looking for ways out, looking for ways to escape and warn Earth, way to contact Win and tell her everything he knew.

He tried. He tried a thousand different ideas to get a message out, anywhere. He tried a thousand different ways to not fall for Spock. Listed a thousand different reasons why this was not going to happen, why it could never happen, why Jim could never let it happen.

Nothing, nothing, and nothing.

Despite his best efforts, nothing panned out and Jim felt like a traitor in so many ways. Felt like somehow, Vulcan had finally reached in and grabbed his soul and instead of fighting against that grip, he was melting into it. He was quiet, compliant, fucking _obedient_. This was unacceptable.

But when Spock looked at him with those dark eyes of his, when Spock said Jim’s name like it was the key to something, he forgot. Forgot about betrayal, pushed aside his worries about Earth. Jim forgot he was a slave, forgot Spock was Ang’jmizn getting ready to lead Vulcan ships to Earth. Forgot Spock was the enemy.

When Spock looked at him and said Jim’s name like it was _Jim’s_ name, not anyone else’s, not a mark of Spock’s power, not anything greater or smaller but just a name, a mark of his identity and personhood, Jim could feeling himself falling faster and faster.

What’s more, he could tell that Spock was falling too.

And what was once a statement, a declaration, an impulse, a desire to reassert his power and his rights turned into something completely different. Something that scared the shit out of Jim.

Because it was wrong. Everything he believed in, everything that he stood for went against what was happening to Jim right now. Jim burned for freedom. He joined Starfleet, he and Win fought for Earth because they believed that no species had the right to dictate to others how life should be lived, how civilizations should be developed, how laws should be written, or how technology developed. No one had the right to speak for another person, choose for another person, take from another person what was not willingly given.

Everything he believed in said that love is impossible in slavery. Because love required equality, and it required that those equals give up a part of themselves for another. In slavery, there were no equals, no giving, no parts. Everything was taken. It was an absolute. That’s what slavery meant, and whatever the interactions between master and slave, love could have no place in it.

Jim was falling, and falling hard. Crashing. Trying to press the brakes but still being pulled in, still hurtling to something he thought was impossible and couldn’t really exist. Something he thought could only be a perversion of the real thing, a twisted parody wearing a sick smile.

Spock only had to say his name and he was a free man giving up that freedom to betray everything he held dear.

He was a traitor. A slave. A fool, deserter.

He was free. He’d dared to set his own terms and refused to let anyone compromise them. He was alive, standing, unbroken. Changed.

Assumptions reconsidered, rules rewritten, feelings transformed by his own free will.

Because isn’t that how it is, when the terms are equal?

\--

“It is not necessary to use such tactics against them. Terra will not be a profitable or peaceful addition to our territories if we so totally ravage the land.”

T’Pring grew irritated. Spock been arguing with her and the Council’s decisions more often and more vigorously of late. She understood his distaste for the utilization of such brute force, but he had done it before. There was no reason to protest now.

“Indulgence will only lead to further rebellion,” she replied. “It is best to strike hard and fast, break their military and all infrastructure so that there is no hope for turning the tide with a late victory.”

“Slashing and burning can do nothing but wreak senseless destruction and breed resentment.”

“Mercy accomplishes nothing but increased efforts to prevent us from taking what is our right. They will perceive us as weak and unwilling to take the necessary action, and they will take advantage of that.”

Spock’s expression was dark.

“I am not speaking of mercy, T’Pring. I am speaking of enhancing our position in the region and reducing the cost of reconstruction by allowing key areas of the planet to remain intact.”

“The cost of rebuilding and establishing our presence on the planet is secondary to the psychological impact we must impress on their population.”

“Slash and burn in no way is a means to shock and awe the Terrans.”

“It is a demonstration of our power and makes clear the full measure of our capabilities.”

“T’Pring you have not _seen_ —”

Spock stopped himself abruptly.

“What have I not seen?” T’Pring demanded. “I have seen it visiting our colonies. I have read it in the reports. What have I not seen, Spock?”

He was silent, dark eyes unreadable.

“This is our Way and it is our right. The Council has decided it,” she said, silver facade firmly in place. “Will you disregard their ruling? Will you disobey their order?”

He stood silent.

“Spock, why do you do this? I thought your doubts and troubles were resolved.”

“They are.”

“Then why these protests? Buildings can be rebuilt, we will improve their infrastructure, introduce beneficial changes to their governments. It is our Way.”

“T’Pring, have you never thought that their way might be true as well? That it is possible to have many truths and many ways without contradiction?”

His voice was quiet and his eyes searching, as though he sought from her some sign. T’Pring held herself in her Councilor’s posture.

“There are many truths and many ways, but ours is best.”

Spock’s expression closed.

“This is the Way,” T’Pring said.

Something folded in her mind. Spock looked at her, an unnamed emotion behind his eyes.

“It is our Way.”

\--

Spock was taking off Jim’s armbands. Blue eyes watched as able fingers unlocked the clasps and neatly pulled the pieces of gold away.

“I love you,” Jim blurted out.

That... came out of nowhere. He hadn’t planned on saying anything to Spock.

Spock put his hand to Jim’s face and kissed him, the kiss growing passionate. This Terran.

Then stepped away.

“I should never have brought you here.”

Wait.

“What?”

That definitely wasn’t what Jim thought Spock would say. He didn’t have an idea of what he thought Spock would say, but that definitely wasn’t it.

“These should never have touched your arms,” Spock threw the armbands to the floor, where they fell with a dull clatter. He traced his finger along Jim’s psi points. “They should never have Interrogated you and marked your mind.”

Jim took Spock’s hand in his.

“I should never have brought you here. You should be free.”

He kissed Spock’s fingers.

“I’m not yours to free. You gifted me, remember?”

“I will speak with T’Pring—”

“No,” Jim said, voice sharp. “No. My freedom isn’t something you win for me. It’s not something you give to me. You didn’t take it away—”

“I am Vulcan—”

“Were you the one who put the chains on me? Were you the one who dragged me to the auction block?”

Spock was silent.

“My freedom isn’t something you took away, and it’s not something you’re going to give either. It’s mine,” he drew Spock close to him. “Never anyone else’s. Mine.”

“But if you could be free—if you could go to Terra—you know I am Ang’jmizn and will lead a campaign—”

Jim put his fingers to Spock’s lips.

“Don’t think about it.”

He felt Spock’s mouth open to respond. Jim slipped his index finger between Spock’s teeth.

“Don’t think about it. You live and breathe war and all this shit about duty. You’ve been fighting since you were thirteen. Don’t think about it.”

Jim’s voice was low, hypnotic.

Escape. This was their escape.

“Don’t think about it.”

Escape and dream of another place, another time, away from these elaborate lives and elaborate lies. Escape and play the part, believe in freedom burning, look into his eyes and find a space. Find gold bands thrown aside, shattered like glass, find music singing of love, duty, country, betrayal. Escape into each other and forget.

( _Ohime! di guerra fremere  
L'atroce grido io sento,  
Per l'infelice patria,  
Per me... per voi pavento._

 _Ah!—no, sulla mia patria  
Non geme il cor soltanto;  
Quello ch'io verso e pianto  
Di sverturato amor!_ )

\--

T’Pring entered Spock’s study. The odd little machine was present, softly playing its music. A man was singing, voice full of longing.

 _Se quel guerrier  
Io fossi! se il mio sogno  
S'avverasse!... Un esercito di prodi  
Da me guidato... e la vittoria ... e il plauso  
Di Menfi tutta! E a te, mia dolce Aida,  
Tornar di lauri cinto...  
Dirti: per te ho pugnato, per to ho vinto!_

 _Celeste Aida, forma divina.  
Mistico serto di luce e fior,  
Del mio pensiero tu sei regina ,  
Tu di mia vita sei lo splendor._

 _Il tuo bel cielo vorrei redarti,  
Le dolci brezze del patrio suol;  
Un regal serta sul crin posarti,  
Ergerti un trono vicino al sol._

She shuddered slightly at the music, but kept her expression neutral.

“Do you know what he is saying?”

“Yes.”

“James, attend,” she called into the corridor, then settled into a chair. “Tell me.”

Spock hesitated, then nodded. He turned the music back, pushing buttons restart the music from the beginning.

“T’Pring, you called?”

“Have you finished the accounts?”

“They are in my quarters, I will go—”

The singing began, and Spock with it. His gaze was directed to some inner space, thoughts opaque to T’Pring.

“What if 'tis I am chosen,  
and my dream be now accomplished.  
Of glorious army  
I the chosen leader—mine glorious victory—  
by Memphis received in triumph!  
To thee returned, Aida, my brow entwined with laurel,  
tell thee, for thee I battled, for thee I conquered.

“Blue-eyed Aida, beauty resplendent,  
radiant garland blooming and bright;  
thou reignest o'er me transcendent,  
bathing my spirit in beauty's light.

“Would that thy bright skies once more beholding,  
breathing the soft airs of thy native land;  
round thy fair brow a diadem folding,  
thine were a throne next the sun to stand.”

The opera continued playing, but silence reigned between T’Pring, Spock, and Jim.

“I’ll—” T’Pring heard him swallow. “I’ll go get the accounts.”

Spock turned his gaze to her.

She rose from where she was sitting and extended two fingers. He met them, eyes dark.

James returned with the datapads. He put them to the side and exited the room.

\--

Weeks passed. The time was drawing near. T’Pring did not see Spock very often, so occupied was she with her duties and he with his. It was always this way before he launched a campaign.

Yet the distance between them was growing rapidly and she could not understand the cause of it. She had become accustomed to his blade-like presence in her mind, and took comfort. She always had. But the bond was weakening, slipping away, somehow splintering despite the fact that he was on Vulcan. It should be strengthening. They were working towards their common cause, their united ambition. What was written would soon be true. T’Pau was amenable to her suggestions that she and Spock bond after he returned to Earth. Surely that was an auspicious occasion and grand victory.

It would not snap, she knew. Nor could the bond be severed. Nonetheless, it worried her, the distance. He had not been this far from her since his long and arduous battles against the Klingons.

“Spock? Is there anything the matter?” she would ask. She couldn’t help but asking. This should concern him too.

“No,” he always replied. “Does something worry you?”

He said it with such confidence, such calm. Perhaps it was only her anxiety.

“No,” she exhaled. “No, it is nothing.”

\--

This was it. Fuck. Everything was in place. He had no idea when, but he knew it was soon. Spock was going to the temple to purify himself every other day. T’Pring had him working out some kind of logistical calculations. He was tempted to sabotage half of them, but didn’t. Because of Spock. What if one of Jim’s errors cost Spock his life? Sometimes the stupidest things meant life or death out in space. Jim knew. He’d lived it, after all. Though that life seemed like it was an eternity away.

This was tearing Jim apart.

They were going to attack Earth.

They were going to attack Earth.

He found himself wishing a thousand different things. That he’d never gone to follow up on that tip, that he’d mutilated himself, that he’d killed himself in that cell or that the Interrogators killed him, that Spock had never bought him, let him go free, that the crew of that smuggling ship never mutinied, that Spock had never come back for him, never given him space, never looked at him, never kissed him, never touched him.

It was easier to blame it on Spock. Otherwise he’d have to admit that he was the one who drew the lines, he was the one who went to Spock and started this whole thing in the first place, he was the one who found himself missing Spock, made up fifteen different excuses to spend time with him, got caught up in those dark eyes, let Spock touch him. Fell in love with him. Of his own free will. Of his own free will.

And now Spock was going to Earth on that fucking Vulcan mission to dominate the Milky Way Galaxy.

They were going to attack Earth and Jim couldn’t help but want Spock to come back safe to him, whatever the cost.

His throat closed, chest clenched.

They were going to attack Earth and Jim couldn’t help but hope that Spock would die, Earth would stay safe and free, and Vulcan would fall.

His gut twisted inside.

They were going to attack Earth.

\--

They were going to attack Terra.

The time was set. The ceremonies completed. The ships ready.

A thousand emotions flashed in T’Pring’s eyes. Her silver facade trembled.

Spock had totally closed the bond to her. Even when she sought entrance and gently touched his mind, he refused, giving the excuse that he was preparing himself for battle.

She did not need the bond to know that was a lie. Spock was lying to her. He had never lied to her. Certainly he withheld things, certainly there had been times when he was silent rather and answer her inquiries. But now he lied to her without hesitation, blocked her out.

He did not block her all the time. Only selectively. T’Pring jealously tried to find a pattern, but there was none. He blocked her when he was in the temple. He muted their bond when they were debating tactics in front of the Council. He blocked her in the privacy of his estate. He closed his doors to her, when he had promised he never would!

It burned against her, this knowledge.

And she knew, by the look on his face, the glow in his eyes, that he was sexually sating himself, often and regularly. She did not know when and with whom, but she knew, with the sense that all Vulcan women had, that he had another partner stowed away. Hidden. His interest in her was fading, had already faded.

Malice and jealousy flared inside her.

Spock was _hers_. His mind was _hers_ , his body was _hers_. They were _betrothed_ , meant for each other. It was written. It was to be their Way. She would not share him with anyone else, and the thought that he turned to another made her burn with a thousand emotions.  
She would find this rival. She would destroy them.

Her mind worked, sought, calculated, compiled facts and observations, thought of ploys and stratagems to coax a confession from Spock, to find the answer. She thought of all the ways she could torture her rival, strip them of power, dignity, wealth, position—whatever it was they held most dear, she would devastate them by destroying both it and taking Spock. He was _hers_. No one was meant to touch him but her. No one was allowed to capture his attention like that but her. It was written.

Malice like mercury oozing, thoughts behind her silver facade yet a thousand emotions flashed in her eyes. Doubt, rage, jealousy burning.

When did it happen? When did his mind turn away from her? Why had she not seen before?

She should never have bent to the will of the Council. They should have been bonded long ago, then this would never happen. Now Spock going to Terra and no one could guess how many months, years, it might take. What if it was his last? What if he died, frozen in space? She could murder T’Pau for it, for standing in the way of her right. Spock was her _right_.

No. Spock would return victorious. He always came back to her victorious. It would be as it was. It was written. No matter her unknown rival, what was written could not be denied and T’Pring would have her Way.

She would still find her rival and destroy them. Kill them with a thousand cuts. Her mind calculated, silver plots flashing.

T’Pring tried reaching out over the bond once more.

And was met with a wall of silence.

\--

“Don’t go. Don’t do it,” Jim whispered. “For me. For you. You’re half human. They’re your mother’s people. Earth’s your home too.”

They were lying together in bed. Tomorrow at sunrise, Spock would leave for his campaign to Earth.

It tore at Jim. He wanted Earth free. He could never want Spock to be victorious. But Spock defeated meant Spock dead. And he couldn’t want that either.

Spock shifted beside him.

“Don’t go. Don’t do it.”

His words were useless, he knew. Spock was Vulcan’s Ang’jmizn. Desertion was death. And Spock could not betray the principles on which his entire life had been founded. He was a creature of duty. Vulcan must always come before all else, including love. Including himself.

It didn’t stop Jim from trying. He held a lot of sway over Spock. Spock gave him that power when he allowed himself to be changed by Jim, when he tried to see the world in Jim’s light. Jim had a lot of sway over Spock, but wasn’t enough to override the Vulcan teachings, washed into him over the years. Jim’s only power was love, and young love at that. Vulcan had a whole arsenal at their disposal. T’Pring had a whole arsenal at her disposal.

But if Spock could remember Jim’s words, he might show mercy. Spare Earth. Or something. Jim had to grasp at something. He had spent the past nights imagining Iowa up in flames, seeing humanity scattered and shackled.

Fuck. When had he become so fucking defeatist? Win would think of something. It wasn’t like Earth was defenseless. They’d been spending years building their defenses, preparing for this moment. They had a fighting chance. If they were patient and had a little luck, they could take down even Spock. Vulcans were defeatable. He had to believe that Vulcans were defeatable.

Defeat meant Spock dead. That was the only way he was defeated. If he was killed.

It tore at Jim. He wrapped his arms around Spock tighter, not sure if he was grasping for Spock or grasping for Earth.

Spock could feel through telepathy the emotions burning in Jim. He caught glimpses of what must have been Jim’s childhood home. The scenes were all unfamiliar to him, the expanse of green and the abundance of water completely alien. Jim claimed that Terra was Spock’s home.

There was only one place that Spock would ever call home. It was this estate, the place where he held his first lirpa. The place where T’Pau had guided him through all the necessary disciplines. The place where he met T’Pring and spent time in her silver company, the place where he returned, without fail, after every campaign. The blue water of Jim’s planet could never be home. Home was the red desert, T’Kuht and the galaxy above, the deep hidden reservoirs of water below. Spock could never abandon it, despite its failings and its flaws.

That was what remained of the Way. It was not merely the Vulcan Way, but Spock’s way. With Jim, he had navigated his doubts and questions, seen old things in new lights. But Vulcan, the planet, its people, would always come first. No matter his fervent love for Jim, no matter the intoxicating blue of Jim’s eyes.

He pressed his fingers against Jim’s psi points, kissing him.

“I am sorry.”

Anger surged. Rage. Burning. Freedom.

Fine. _Fine_! Spock could die, for all he cared. Spock could blow his own head off in the firefight. Jim didn’t need this. He didn’t need _this_.

“I will return to you,” Spock promised.

Jim didn’t want him back. He didn’t want him, if it meant the total destruction of Earth.

“I will see to it that Terra is not destroyed. You have my word, Jim.”

Jim didn’t want his word. Didn’t want anything from Spock. Didn’t want anything but freedom and that wasn’t something Spock or anyone could grant. It was his, and his alone.

He had nothing but that dream of freedom now. Nothing. Because Spock would always choose duty over him, would always uphold Vulcan’s honor than do what Jim asked. Jim gave himself up to this Vulcan, found that love had somehow sunk into his skin and latched deep into his soul, and Spock would never choose him first. He had nothing. No dignity, no choices. And soon, he might have no home. Only a dream of freedom.

“I hate you,” he whispered into Spock’s skin, still holding him. “I hate you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. You’re not.”

\--

They were standing, the three of them. T’Pring in front of Spock, James attending behind her. They were standing at the entrance of Spock’s palace, arranged in a triangle.

Spock raised his hand and extended two fingers. T’Pring mirrored the motion.

The contact between them was as it always had been. No, she thought. It was dulled. Spock’s did not look at her as he once did. It was as she feared.

But she did not know who could be the object of his affections. There was no one who was her equal, no one who would dare challenge the bond between her and Spock. It was written. It was destined. They were meant for each other.

Spock ended the contact between them and with crisp motions, walked to his escort. He was Ang’jmizn, face set in the cold neutrality of his command. His campaign for Terra had begun, starting from the moment he stepped away from his ancestral home.

T’Pring watched as he climbed into to the escort and disappeared behind tinted glass. She watched the car glide away to take him to the transporter. He would be on the _Buk_ within minutes.

She turned.

T’Pring turned and saw James, blue eyes burning, expression open on his face.

She saw and she knew that _this_ , a human slave, was her rival.


	5. Act IV

“Attend, James.”

Jim quickly closed the datapad, stood, and followed in step behind T’Pring’s gathered entourage.

She really didn’t need that many people following her around all the time.

“We are going to the Procession. My Lord Spock has returned.”

Oh fuck.

He loved and hated the Processions the Vulcans held whenever Spock came back. On one hand, it meant Spock was back. On the other hand, it meant Jim was forced to stand in the midday sun under some pavilion, watching as the warriors paraded the evidence of their conquests.

There were always slaves. Always.

Usually people of high rank, and soldiers marked for execution. Apparently, Vulcans demanded more blood sacrifice for the sake of their empire.

He had brought it up with Spock once. Tried to reason with him. All Spock said was, “It is our Way,” and that was the end it.

It is their Way. He said it like he was the one trapped by tradition, by Vulcan and the heat of its sun. Spock could come and go as he pleased. He was a fucking conqueror of worlds. Don’t give Jim that shit, don’t give him that look, like he’s the one who’s helpless. It’s bullshit.

“ _Attend_ , James. Your mind has wandered of late.”

“Forgive, T’Pring,” he bowed his head.

“Then be aware.”

She was dressed in silver. T’Pring was always silver, white-grey metallic like Earth’s luminescent moon. She regarded him with calculating eyes.

Jim held his breath.

Yes, beware, human. I know your secret. I know your indiscretion. Before the day is done, I will have my revenge and triumph. I will _have_ it.

James would be irrelevant by the end of the day. Spock would be hers once more.

“Forward,” she commanded.

Jim had a bad feeling about this. He had a really bad feeling about this.

Spock was coming back from his campaign against Earth.

He was victorious.

\--

“Glory to Vulcan and the land by logic protected  
To Vulcan raise we our victory song!  
Hither advance, o thou warrior band,  
Mingle thy joy with ours, the desert vast  
and fragrant flowers scatter the path along!”

“The myrrh and aloe with lotus bound  
The victor’s brows anointing,  
Let flowers, sweet victory’s perfume enwreathe,  
veil their grim arms from sight.  
Stand, sons of Vulcan, circling round,  
and sing thy mystic praises.”

“Unto the power war’s issue dread deciding  
our glances raise we;  
thank we our warriors, the Council, the laws of logic, and praise we  
on this triumphant day!”

“Thus our dread foes once more dispersed  
and honor vindicated, rationality supreme,  
we shall never fall prostrated  
beneath their hated sway.”

Jim watched the procession with dread.

Row after row after row of warriors, bearing the spoils of Spock’s last campaign. His campaign against Earth.

Vulcans. They were thorough. Famous for it. None more thorough than Spock. Was there _anything_ left on Earth? It looked like they hauled everything back to Vulcan.

Paintings, machinery, brocades of cloth, chests of gems, ancient scrolls, books, statues. It was like they raided a museum and brought everything back for display. No, not just a museum. Jim recognized science instruments, cases of data solids, blueprints of buildings. They started carting in animals. Horses, tigers and lions, jaguars, leopards—they seemed to like the cats—an entire aquarium of coral and shimmering fish. Plants, samples of trees, flowers that even Jim had never seen before, things that looks like fruits. Cacti of every variety. Some of the warriors placed these treasures to the side, others continued on.

It was terrifying, the slow regularity of it. Like a crushing wheel, the procession kept going forwards, bringing in more goods from Earth, displaying to themselves and all others gathered the fullness of their might. The fullness of Spock’s power and his ability to command the Vulcan fleet. This was Spock’s conquest, this was Spock’s victory. Jim felt sick to his stomach thinking about it. Did the Vulcans scorch the land? Did they destroy Earth’s cities? Did they sack the planet?

Iowa. Jim’s home in a little corner of nowhere. Did they leave that standing?

That bastard. That fucking bastard and his duty, his immovable sense of honor. Nothing was sacred to him. Nothing but Vulcan principles.

And Jim loved him. He still loved him, despite the fact that this Vulcan gutted his home planet, destroyed its capitals and enslaved its people. That love twisted inside Jim, tortured him from the inside. Spock only had to say his name and Jim would be there at his side, giving himself up in ways he never let anyone take him before.

That bastard. That _bastard_. He didn’t get to do this Jim. Didn’t get to _own_ Jim this way, this way that took not just his body, but his very soul, his loyalty and his freedom. No one could do that to him. James Tiberius Kirk did not give himself up to anyone or anything. Not to the Ang’jmizn, come home victorious in his campaign.

But when the Ang’jmizn’s hovercar finally came in the procession, Jim’s face went slack.

It was Spock, dressed like a _god_. His face set in that neutral expression, his bearing erect, the ceremonial armor glinting in the sun. Jim had never seen anyone look like they owned power, like they lived and breathed it from the very core of their being. The vision went straight to his head, into his blood, pooled in his groin.

Thoughts, anger, confusion about love and betrayal, planet and people came to head and Jim was struggling to keep his breathing even, to clamp down on the sensations rushing through him and control his impulses. He was surrounded by Vulcans, other slaves, delegations of allies and conquered governments. This was not the time for fantasies of taking the armor off Spock, peeling the underlayer, kissing him from navel to sternum—

This was not the time.

He got a hold of himself. As his vision cleared, he saw T’Pring tremble slightly.

She saw exactly the same thing Jim saw.

T’Pring had attended all the processions dedicated to Spock, as was only appropriate for one betrothed. Over the years and his campaigns, the spoils were always magnificent, the procession always overwhelming in its display. But this had a majesty to it. The procession had an order and aesthetic, a beautiful presentation of controlled violence. It was a representation of Vulcan’s destiny— _her_ destiny, to be shared with Spock. They would conquer with immutable logic, bring civilization and knowledge to all worlds and peoples. They would order the universe according to their design. Nothing could stop them.

She saw him, the dark and glinting sword of Vulcan’s power. The instrument and creator of Vulcan’s fate. He stood, made his way through the procession with such confidence. She saw the surety he had in his mission, in his power, in his duty and the sanctity of his honor.

They would be bonded soon. The Council had decided. Spock must be bonded, as it was decreed in the years past, read in the stars. And when his Time was upon him, T’Pring would be the one to sooth the fire, the only one who could quench his flame. She would know his secrets once more, have his trust and love. It would be as before once more.

The slave could never do it.

James would never be able to bear it. Humans are too weak, undisciplined and untrained for pon farr. T’Pring would be the only one. They will be bonded, Spock will be hers and only hers. She will be the one he turns to in fire and in darkness. Their minds linked, it will be as it is written.

The slave will be forgotten. His existence of no consequence. After the bond, T’Pring would see to it that he is banished from Spock’s estates, never seen again. She will kill him herself, if necessary.

She watched as Spock stopped in front of the High Council’s platform, descended from the hovercar. He stood by the spoils that had been accumulated—gifts to the presented to the dignitaries assembled. And there would be gifts for her. In the privacy of his estate, he would give T’Pring the gift he had chosen for her, his slender fingers touching the inside of her wrist, his dark eyes full of intent. That is how it had been, that is how it will be. The slave was nothing. She will be bonded. What is written cannot be denied.

T’Pring descended from the High Council’s platform, James following behind her, attending.  
She walked, head high, clothed in silver, slowly to the place that Spock stands. James stood behind her, head bowed, gold rings encircling his arms. Slave. He will be nothing.

When she stopped, Jim knelt, legs bare against the hot sand. The searing heat didn’t matter. T’Pring was in front of him, but he stole a glance at Spock.

He hated this. Hated the kneeling, the head bowed. In darkness he will be Spock’s equal, in secrets he is free. But here he obeyed the whim of T’Pring, wore the mark of her slaves. He obeyed, seething at this display of Earth conquered. And him conquered with it.

“S’chn T’gai Spock! Ang’jmizn of thy planet, Vulcan salutes thee!” T’Pau spoke. “Hither now advance, and on thy head, T’Pring will place the crown of triumph.”

Jim didn’t watch T’Pring close the distance. Didn’t think about her touching Spock’s head, fingers lingering, didn’t think about Spock watching her face and accepting the fucking crown of triumph. Triumph at the cost of his lost home. The sand burned into his knees.

“What boon thou askest, freely we will grant it; naught can be denied on such a day. By the power of this Council, I swear shall be done.”

Spock bowed deeply, then stood tall once more.

“First, deign to order that the captives be brought before thee and all that look upon Vulcan.”

“It is done. Bring them forward!”

Fuck. _Fuck_!

He couldn’t help but raise his head to see them bring humans in, pushing and dragging them in chains. Fucking chains.

The line of humans—there must’ve been at least four hundred people. Some of them were still wearing the tatters of old Starfleet uniforms. All of them haggard, like they hadn’t been fed for a couple days. The gravity, the atmosphere, the heat, the humiliation of defeat and the finality of slavery marked them. It showed in the way they slouched, it showed in the expressions on their faces. Jim didn’t recognize anyone.

Hatred surged through him again. Hatred for Spock, for T’Pring for all fucking Vulcans and their indomitable fleet, the oppression of their rule. These were _his_ people, they were the last remnants of his home. Spock was fucking dragging them in front of him, a fucking reminder of his dominance and superiority. Superior strength, superior intelligence. Superior power. Vulcans didn’t get to do this to the galaxy. They didn’t get to break the spirit of entire species. They didn’t get to bulldoze their civilizations, split up families, sell beings into slavery. Where was the logic of it? Where was the justice?!

Jim burned. Burned to break their shackles, the kill the force field that enclosed them, escape away to a place where he could breath freely. Find a sky that had never known the taint of slavery.

When the guards stopped the line, he saw a face.

“Nyota!”

Station forgotten, Jim jumped up to go to her. The guards rushed to apprehend him.

“Stop,” he heard Spock say. “Allow him to enter.”

Jim ran to her.

“Nyota, what’re you—?”

She looked at him, disbelieving. She took in the sight of his clothing, the bands on his arms. Win had always clung to the idea that Jim was alive and kicking, but Nyota thought—they all had thought, especially after they knew he was in the Fortress—Jim was dead or worse. Here he was, standing in front of her, alive and kicking, blue eyes still fierce like his mother’s.

Nyota pushed away the thought of Win.

“Jim,” she sounded a little dazed. “You’re alive.”

“Couldn’t kill me,” he touched her to make sure she was real.

“You always were a survivor—”

Her voice was scratchy, but Nyota still had the fire in her. It came as a relief. But if she was here, where’s—?

“What happened? Where’s Win? What happened?”

His words. Brought up flashes of memory she didn’t want to think about. Her expression shuttered. But Jim deserved to know. At least that much, he deserved to know.

“Earth—it was a slaughter, Jim—” it was coming out all wrong. Nyota was sleep deprived, hungry, thirsty, hot sun and thin air playing hell on her.

Then her eyes went wide, expression closed on itself. Defiance like steel running in her muscles, despite the fact that Nyota’s world was partially tilted and blurring.

Jim turned around.

“Name yourself, and your rank,” T’Pring’s said, voice inflectionless, Spock at her side.

“James, attend.”

He didn’t move.

“James, attend,” T’Pring repeated.

“Go to hell,” Nyota hissed. “Uhura, captain of the USS _Enterprise_.”

Captain? Jim’s mind was spinning with the implications.

“You will learn to respect your superiors, human.”

It should be Winona Kirk, captain of the _Enterprise_. It should his mom saying that. She should be here. She can’t be—she can’t be—his mother was indestructible—his mother wasn’t afraid of anything—she gave birth to him in space—she found ways to organize defend Earth against the Vulcans—she was a genius—she couldn’t be—there was no way—it should be his mom—blonde hair blue eyes shining insolent—this isn’t—this isn’t—real—true—happening—

This is war, Kirk. This is fucking war. Get a grip on yourself. This is fucking war.

That bastard. That bastard. That bastard, standing beside T’Pring, looking at Jim with dark eyes.

And all he had to do was say Jim’s name.

“State thy grievances, Captain Uhura.”

“My grievances?” Nyota was incredulous. “You want to know what I think of your great civilizing mission?”

Spock didn’t answer. Nyota took that as assent.

“I’ve served in Starfleet since I was sixteen. Lied about my age to enlist. I’ve been fighting you fuckers for fifteen years now, and I’m not going to stop. I’ve been fighting for Earth and my freedom half my life, and I’ll never stop. You’ve got me in chains, in this forcefield. You think you’ve conquered Earth.

“You’ll never conquer _me_.”

T’Pring’s hand came down on Nyota’s face. Jim didn’t see it coming, and Spock did nothing to stop her.

That bastard. Spock had his mask on. Jim couldn’t read a single thing, he had no idea what Spock was thinking. That fucking bastard.

“You will bow to the might of Vulcan, human,” T’Pring’s said, silver. “I will see to it.”

Nyota bared her teeth, expression feral.

His mother dead. As he looked around, Jim saw some others he recognized. He wandered among their ranks, touching their faces, unbelieving of what he was seeing.

It was different. It was different than when he was captured. To see his friends in chains. To know his mother was dead.

They were haggard. Thirst coursed through the entire body of prisoners like the shackles they were wearing.

This wasn’t going to break them. This was not going to break him. They would find a way out. They would find a way back home, regroup, rebuild, attack, defend. Vulcan was _not_ going to break him. It wasn’t going to break humankind.

Jim glanced at Spock, that obscene armor blazing in the sun.

All he had to do was say Jim’s name.

Jim hated him for it.

T’Pring saw the way Spock followed James’s meandering through the ranks of the pathetic. She saw his gaze, the glowing passion blazing inside.

The slight. His eyes seeing past her to the slave. The human slave was loved and she was forgotten. A thousand emotions rose in her chest.

Spock watched Jim, watched and saw sorrow, grief, hatred, defiance grim on his face. These were Jim’s comrades. Earth was his home. Jim’s expressions were open and Spock could see what this Procession, held in Spock’s honor, was doing to Jim. He made a decision.

He broke his silence, raised his voice.

“T’Pau, a boon I ask of thee. Thou sworest by the power of Vulcan that whatever I asked thee, thou would grant it.”

“Speak, and it shall be granted. We have sworn it.”

“Vouchsafe thee, I pray, freedom and life to freely grant unto these Terran captives here.”

Jim froze.

 _Free them all_?!

T’Pring raged.

 _Free them all_?!

Nyota raged.

 _My freedom was never yours to grant._

The crowd was murmuring, the priests disturbed.

“It is my wish,” Spock said.

All he had to do was say Jim’s name.

He was doing this for the human. Spock was doing this for that worthless human. But T’Pring would have her revenge. She would be the victor today.

Nyota narrowed her eyes. There was something off about this whole interaction. There was no reason for the Vulcan to show mercy. Vulcan were thorough. They were never merciful. Her instincts were screaming at her.

“Here me, O Council, and thou too, dauntless young hero,” High Priest Stuval boomed. “Listen thou to the voice of reason; these gathered here are our foes, to battle hardened, in them the thirst for vengeance never will die. If pardoned, set loose again to the space above, they will grow bolder and to their arms once more will they fly.”

Spock made a show of considering their argument, but he already knew what he was going to say.

“With the destruction of their planet, all hopes of revenge have perished,” Spock answered.

“Thou sworest that thou wouldst grant this boon. It is my wish.”

Jim’s vision was filled with Spock, standing tall. It wasn’t hope that he felt, or gratitude. Only loyalty warring with love, longing mixed with loathing.

A thousand emotions rose within T’Pring. The way the human dared look at Spock. The way the slave’s eyes lingered on his body, as though he knew the secrets under the armor. The abomination of it. She would break him before she was through.

 _My freedom was never yours to grant. My freedom was never yours to grant!_

“Let them be examined by the Interrogators, and those deemed safe, set free. Keep we back Captain Uhura, and all others who thirst for retribution.”

“Thy counsel is sound,” T’Pau answered. “It shall be done. But safety and peace more certain will I give thee, Spock.”

T’Pring’s triumph.

“Eleven days hence the bond shall by sealed between thee and T’Pring, as it was written in the days before. Hereafter thou shalt serve Vulcan with her as thy companion, together thou shalt rule with logic and expand the borders of our territories.”

Jim froze. Sun beating down on him, standing with the conquered, he froze.

T’Pring’s silver facade turned to him to take in the expression of his total devastation. This was her fate. It was meant to be, it would always be. The slave would be forgotten.

Nyota was watching Jim carefully, eyes going between him, the Vulcan commander, and the Vulcan princess. The Commander’s face had closed completely, while silver malice glowed from the woman’s eyes. Jim stood in the full sun of Vulcan.

She could use this.

If she survived the Interrogators, the torture, the slavery, she could use this. She is Nyota Uhura, war veteran of fifteen years, familiar with the stories of love and war. Jim was key. He only needed to be reminded of the price Earth has paid, of the devastation and indifferent cruelty of Vulcans. He could get her what she needed and they could escape Vulcan to fight another day.

Nyota knew Jim. She served under his mother for seven years, was her First Officer for three. Nyota was willing to use every trick in the book to get whatever she needed—whatever Earth needed. Jim was key. Everything hinged on him.

He will play Delilah to the Vulcan Commander’s Samson, he will be Radames’ Aida.

It might destroy him.

But she is Nyota Uhura, and she is willing to take that chance.

This was her revenge.

And Spock only had to say Jim’s name.

\--

No matter her revenge, she knew Spock would fornicate with the human.

She would bear it. Eleven days hence, the slave would be nothing.

T’Pring gazed into her mirror, measuring the silver in her expression.

Eleven days hence, everything would be in her hands.

\--

It was a bitch to arrange, but Jim managed to slip into the prison where Nyota was being held.

“Brought you something to eat.”

The victory feasts had obscene amounts of food. It wasn’t hard to steal something from the leftovers.

“Cake?” she looked at the sweet yellow bread with a dubious expression. “I didn’t know Vulcans ate cake.”

“They don’t, at least not this kind. It was for the alien dignitaries. And I got you these clementines. Whatever I could nab.”

“Thanks,” she ate slowly.

Going without eating for extended periods taught her a few things. Nyota doesn’t remember the last time she could eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

“God, real fruit. Real Terran fruit. Not replicated. Do you know how hard it is to come by stuff like this?”

“How are things?” Jim asked, voice quiet.

“Same old, same old.”

“Spock said Earth was destroyed.”

Nyota straightened, drew her shoulders back.

“Is that his name. Spock,” she tasted it in her mouth. It was disgusting.

“Ang’jmizn Spock, commander of the Vulcan Fleets. Yeah.”

“We’re still standing. It takes more than a slash and burn campaign to conquer Earth,” steel in her voice.

Jim paled.

Slash and burn.

He saw his home in flames. Cornfields burning. Sky black with smoke.

“Did Mom—?” He can’t even say it.

“It was quick, Jim.”

“How—?”

“We were on a rescue mission. Things went sideways. It was a four of us—standard rescue squad—against a barrack of Vulcans. We got out, but only because Win held them off.”

“She didn’t make it?”

“She took them down with her.”

Jim closed his eyes and exhaled.

“It was actually a mission to get you.”

His head jerked up.

“We got a tip that said you might be there, so we followed up on it. Turned out to be another slave house. The logs said you’d been there, but that you’d been sold, taken to Vulcan itself.”

“The Fortress.”

“The heart of it, apparently, if you’re close to their High Commander.”

Nyota watched Jim’s reaction carefully, looking for confirmation.

She found it. A small nod.

“That was stupid of her. She should’ve just counted me as dead and moved on.”

“You’re her son, Jim. Win swore she’d kill any Vulcan who touched you. Swore she’d castrate them herself.”

“I didn’t have to—”

“Really?” her voice was sharp.

Jim can’t bullshit her. Silence hung between them.

“I managed to avoid it,” he finally said.

It was true. He came close, but the only time a Vulcan touched him was when Jim let him. His gut twisted at that thought.

Nyota read his face. She let it go.

“You’re too handsome for your own good,” she said, lightness filling her voice.

“Yeah? Well, same goes for you.”

She smiled, remembering.

They used to have a thing for each other, way back when. Then shut that thought out. They had bigger dreams then. Times were different then.

Enlisting changed everything. Growing up changed everything.

“I’m sorry, Jim.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I’m still sorry. Win was seriously plotting to launch an attack on Vulcan to get you back.”

Jim laughed.

“What kept her from doing it?”

“The Admiralty, as usual.”

His smile was wide.

“They should’ve let her. She would’ve found a way in.”

“The Vulcans wouldn’t know what hit them.”

“Actually,” he said, voice thoughtful. “If she did it while Spock was away, she’d’ve had a good chance of success.”

“They don’t keep patrols of their planet?”

“No, they do. But the officers aren’t as good. Spock’s their mastermind. They send him out on campaigns half the time.”

Jim was playing into her hands perfectly.

“What else do you know?”

“Know a shitload more about Vulcan politics than I ever wanted to.”

“Anything useful?”

“Not immediately. Not something that could be used for military strategy.”

“What about their ships, the technology?”

“No one but Vulcans’re allowed on battle cruisers. I’ve been in one—twice—but they never let me see anything.”

“You’re not?” she pointed to his gold arm bands. “You’re not the Commander’s?”

“No.” Jim controlled his reaction. “Spock bought me, as a gift for T’Pring.”

“The Vulcan who slapped me.”

“Yeah. That one. Which reminds me,” he brought out a small medkit and tossed it to Nyota. “Thought it might come in handy.”

“Thanks.”

Nyota began looking over her various wounds.

“Then what do you do?”

“I’m kind of like a steward. Manage some of the household accounts. Sometimes T’Pring gives me Council work, calculating tribute payments. Boring stuff.”

He kept his tone light and didn’t think about the last few months. T’Pring didn’t change his duties or his punishments, but she watched him all the time, with that silver facade carefully controlled, mercury behind her eyes. Her presence hounded him, day and night. She forbid him from going to Spock’s estate while he was on campaigns. Said he was to attend _her_. He had no choice.

“But better than the mines.”

Everyone had heard a lot of horror stories about the mines. Jim wondered if it was worth it, if he could change his place. He’d be away from T’Pring’s stare.

“Better than a lot of things.”

Nyota was curious.

“Does she ever—?”

“What?”

“You know.”

“You mean sex?” the thought horrified Jim. He hadn’t even _considered_ that. But... he wondered if T’Pring had, as some new form of mindfuckery. “No. No, not in her life.”

She wouldn’t do it herself. T’Pring hated humans. Or at least she hated Jim. Anyone with two eyes could see that. If she ever thought of the possibility, it probably would have been pairing him with someone else. Against his will. Against the other’s will. Jim pushed that thought away.

“As far as I know, she’s never been fucked in her life,” he laughed, the sound forced.

“Saving herself up for the wedding?”

Jim looked away.

“Something like that.”

“No wonder it looks like she’s got something shoved up her ass.”

“Yeah,” he paused. “That’ll change.”

“She and Spock—?”

“Promised since birth. They’re sealing the marriage in a few days.”

There was an expression on Jim’s face that unsettled her. It was obvious that the Vulcan prized Jim in some way. Maybe even loved him. He was a Vulcan and his face was like stone, but something came alive when he looked at Jim. Nyota had been tired and thirsty, but she kept her eyes open and knew what she saw. Win was right—it was all about the timing. With patience and a little luck, anything could happen. You could find something to turn the tide.

The Vulcan could be influenced by Jim. He had even asked the Council to set the humans all free, something absolutely unheard of. If that sign didn’t seal things, she didn’t know what did.

But Jim. He was the wild card. Everything hinged on him again. He held the keys. But the expression on his face, the subtle shift in his eyes. Nyota wasn’t sure she wanted to know the truth.

She went for the jugular anyway.

“What are you to him?”

Jim looked up, eyes wide.

He knew the question was coming. He just didn’t expect her to say it so directly, and in that tone of voice. He thought he had an answer, he thought he knew how much he was going to tell Nyota. But this—the way she was staring at him—caught him off guard.

Before he could recover, she hit him with another.

“You love him, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Fuck shit fuck.

He couldn’t even think of a way out of this. Couldn’t deny it.

Jim was silent.

Nyota was making rapid calculations of her own. This was bad.

She’d seen Jim in love before. She’d seen him fall for Gary Mitchell, witnessed his series of flings. But this was different. This was sick. Suddenly, Nyota wasn’t not sure if Jim would be willing to play his part in this.

He was key.

She forged ahead.

“Has he slept with you?”

Sleep. That’s the euphemism of the century. Spock’s taken him in so many ways, none of them comparable to sleeping.

The silence is confirmation. What’s more, the look in his eyes

“You _let him_ fuck you.”

And suddenly, rage, betrayal, were spinning out of control in Nyota’s vision because she remembered everything Vulcans have done in their quest to dominate the galaxy, the atrocities committed, men and women raped and left bleeding, fury gathered behind her eyes because it feels like Jim’s betrayed her, himself, everything they hold dear that he handed himself over to a Vulcan, the Vulcan responsible for all this bloodshed and terror.

Win’s screams echoing in her ear. All this time. All this time, searching for Jim and he was _fucking_ the enemy. Win’s screams echoing in her ear, snapping Cornwallis’ elbow, Sulu and Chekov dead, Scotty—she didn’t even think about Scotty. All this time.

“It’s not what you’re thinking—”

 _Traitor_

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking! How can you do this?! After everything—how can you do this!”

 _Traitor!_

“It’s not as simple as you—”

“They’re the enemy. They. Are. The. Enemy. He’s their Commander, for god’s sakes!”

“I know that, but just listen to me for a sec—”

“Oh no. No. No no no no _no_. Don’t tell me you think he’s better than them, if you get to know him—no. I don’t want to get to know him. I don’t want to get to know any of them, not when they started this. All of it!”

Out of control. Nyota was flinging in his face all his doubts about his loyalties, about what he wants and who he is.

“Your Commander,” she spit the word, “might be _noble_ and _good_ , but you _know_ what Vulcans do! You’ve seen them!”

“Spock’s not like that. He doesn’t let—”

 _Traitor traitor betrayal traitor fucking the enemy traitor_

“Don’t lie to yourself! Or do you want me to remind you? Do want me to remind you what they did to Gary? How they fucked around with his psionic abilities until he went mad. Or how about Chekov and Sulu—”

“They’re—they’re dead?”

“They were tortured. Slowly. For information, and for the sheer joy of it,” her voice got low and hypnotic. “We still haven’t gotten positive IDs on the corpses we found. The Vulcans didn’t want to use mind torture. No, the sanctity of their fucking minds is too high to touch us _humans_ ,” she snarled.

Jim couldn’t say anything. He turned into a fucking mute.

“They must’ve tortured them for hours. Hours of agony, because you know what? Vulcans might claim to be logical, but deep down inside, they’re just sadistic fucks. Violent and emotional hypocrites. They _get off_ on that kind of thing.”

He didn’t tell Nyota to stop. But Spock isn’t like that. Spock’s different. Spock isn’t like that. Isn’t he?

Spock’s the Ang’jmizn of Vulcan. He has the power to stop this, and he doesn’t. He just follows the orders of the Council.

 _Traitor_

“Want me to tell you about Scotty?”

The words come tumbling out before Nyota can stop them. Because she doesn’t want to stop them. Because all this time, fighting and searching for Jim, and Jim—fucking traitor.

“Want me to tell you how I found him, mind crushed, with the memory of a four year old? He can’t remember his own name. He’s playing with blocks in an insane asylum.”

Hysteria. Jim was there for the wedding. He gave her away. Win presided, married them on the _Enterprise_. Jim’s like a brother to her and he is _fucking the enemy_. The same enemy who destroyed her husband, the love of her life.

Nyota doesn’t wear her wedding ring anymore. It hurt too much to think about it. But she will use it, fucking guilt Jim into doing what she wants because it’s right, it’s necessary and she doesn’t care anymore if it destroys him.

Her voice trapped him, soft and deadly.

“Or I’ll tell you exactly how your mother died. The scent of burning flesh, she was screaming in rage and pain when we were making our break. Do you remember her screams when she gave birth to you, Jim? Do you remember? Because I think you’ve forgotten. _Do you remember_?”

 _I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much._

“You’re in love with the same Vulcan who’s destroying every free world in this galaxy. His soldiers take everything, rape everything, fuck everything they want. They’re insatiable. They keep going out and out into space, no logic or order in anything. You’ve seen it, Jim. You’ve seen the chaos they leave behind. The worlds they shatter. Or have you _forgotten_?”

He’d forgotten. He’d gotten lost in the intoxicating scent of Spock’s armpits, the feel of his pubic hair, the mole hidden on the back of his knee. He’d fallen into the Vulcan’s world, was consumed by it, forgot the people dying and the planets screaming, children crying, wailing, tearing hair, falling prostrate at the feet of the conqueror.

He’d given himself, rather than remember.

 _Traitor_

Silence.

Nyota’s chest was heaving. Heart pounding. Rage controlling her every action, cold anger dictating her next move. Her calculations. She’s got Jim cornered now. And he. will. pay. He will atone for this.

Nyota calmed, rage running through her veins like molten steel. Her next words were careful. Designed to hit home.

“Fine,” she said, disgusted. “Fine. If you want to be a Vulcan’s fuck toy, I’ll find some other way to get me off this planet.”

She pulled her trump card. It came to this. It came to fucking this.

“I’m sure your father would be proud. Fucking live long and prosper, Jim. Get out.”

 _I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much._

He didn’t think she’d use that, but she did. He’s got nowhere to go.

 _Traitor_

He’s not. He’s not. He’s fought in just as many battles as her. He had to find a way to survive. He’s not a traitor.

He is. Because Spock only has to say his name—

He’s got nowhere to go.

So the fuck what. He can do this. He’ll get over Spock, he’ll forget him and move on. Get a grip on yourself Kirk. Isn’t this what he’s always wanted? Freedom? The chance of escape? Isn’t this what he’s wanted for so long, for these past years he’s been stuck on Vulcan?

So get the fuck on with it and do it. Spock doesn’t matter. If he plays his cards right, he get them all out and clear of Vulcan with a few hours to spare.

He’ll finally be free. For real this time. For real.

Spock will bond with T’Pring, and they’ll never see each other again.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Win’s dead. People have been dying while he was rolling in soft sheets with Vulcan’s Ang’jmizn.

Win’s _dead_.

He’s doing this.

“I said get out.”

When he didn’t move, Nyota knew she had him.

It felt like a hollow victory.

She pushed that feeling aside. And waited.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do what. Let Spock sodomize you? Be my fucking guest.”

“I’ll get you what you need. Everything. Ship, codes, battle plans. Everything.”

Nyota gave him a long look, betrayal, slavery, Spock, blood, Win, war—everything—standing between them.

“I’ll _do_ it. What do you need, my fucking blood or something?” he bit out. “I said I’ll do it.”

“Do you know everything we need?”

“I’m a slave, not an idiot,” he snarled.

“When’ll everything be ready? Estimates.”

“I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go along.”

An idea.

“Spock’s wedding. We’ll be ready to go by Spock’s wedding. They’ll be celebrating and distracted.”

“Good.”

He nodded, then rose to leave.

“Jim.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn back. Heart clenched, fist clenched, gut twisting.

“It’s good to have you back,” she said, voice saccharine.

Jim kept walking.

\--

He steeled himself.

Locked away all the memories of him and Spock, tangled together.

He steeled himself.

Remembered the horror of his first time in a firefight. Remembered his first rescue mission. The juxtaposition of gore and stale cleanliness. Of impersonality of battles between ships and facing his enemy face to face, hand to hand.

This was personal. Make it personal. Make it fucking personal, Kirk.

He remembered how he got here in the first place. The defeat, the surrender. They were going to execute him—he was too valuable to Starfleet to be allowed to live—but he was too handsome for his own good. Always had been.

Jim steeled himself.

He focused on the vision of space, deep and cold, flying through that void, finally free.

And if that vision included a warm body of pale green skin, he thought nothing of it.

\--

“Spock, I can’t _do_ this anymore. I want to be free—I _have_ to be free. I want to fly again, look out and the space again. I can’t do this anymore.”

“What other choice do we have? I will refuse the bond with T’Pring, I will take you as my consort—it is my right. The priests will grant it to me.”

“No. I can’t. I _can’t_ , Spock. I can’t be a slave anymore, I don’t want to be your consort if it means you own me.”

“I will give you everything you desire, Jim. We will journey through space and conquer this galaxy together.”

It was tempting.

Focus, Kirk.

“You know you can never free me.”

Spock looked away. Jim’s heart was pounding, fear and the chance of discovery looming close, so close, but he pushed that away. He went to Spock and touched his hand to the Vulcan’s face, trailed his fingers down the curve of Spock’s neck, flattened his palm against Spock’s chest, and as his hand traveled down, he got down on his knees.

“Come away with me,” Jim whispered.

Focus, Kirk.

But he wanted. He _wanted_.

Spock’s eyes were dark, the expression on his face unreadable.

“Come away with me. We can escape this place, this war. We’ll find a colony, somewhere we can live together without anyone knowing. Someplace we can both be free. I’ll be yours—not T’Pring’s, not a slave. You’ll be mine. You’ll be mine. No duty, no Vulcan High Council, no priests. Think of it, Spock. Escape.”

He dreamed of it. He had steeled himself, but he couldn’t stop himself from dreaming of it, waking up in his quarters, sheets drenched. Spock and freedom and space made him arch unbearably.

“Escape,” Spock repeated, the words bitter on his tongue. “Leave this place for which I have fought countless battles? This planet I have dedicated my life to?”

Escape. Desertion. Betrayal.

“Freedom, Spock. We’ll be together.”

Focus, Kirk.

He let himself sink into this role, the act he was putting on. It was easy. Because he wanted.

“I touched my first lirpa here. I launched my first ship from these docks.”

Jim looked up at Spock, hands on Spock’s knees in supplication. This was the only man he would ever bow to. And the same man he would betray.

Focus, Kirk.

“Please.”

His voice soft. Play the part, play the part.

Play the part.

“I kissed you the first time under this sun, I touched your body the first time among these sands. You are asking me to leave it behind for an unknown place, a planet that can never be home. You are asking me to desert my people for you.”

“For us. For us, Spock.”

There was silence. The air around them was cold but heat emanated from the red sands. Jim held his breath, half hoping that Spock would say no, half dreading that Spock would say yes. Nyota’s words returned to him. Images of planets devastated, his mother screaming with pain and agony and anguish and one last struggle, Scotty’s mind broken, bodies frozen, floating in the hard vacuum of space, Chekov and Sulu captured and tortured for information, and the knowledge that haunted him, hounded him, of his father’s sacrifice. And that accusation, hanging in the air.

 _Traitor_

He steeled himself.

“Come away with me. We’ll find free skies with nothing to stop us. We’ll forge our own path, build another home. Come away with me, Spock.”

When Spock reached down and threaded his fingers through Jim’s hair, he knew he’d won.

His heart soared.

Focus, Kirk. Play the part, play the part.

Jim looked up.

“Do you love me?”

Spock touched his face, fingers gently tracing the curve of Jim’s eyebrow. Jim pressed his advantage.

“Do you really love me?”

Something shifted on Spock’s face. The creases around his eyes softened, the thin line of his mouth opened and in the darkness, his face became unbearably intimate. Jim’s breath hitched.  
He reined himself in again.

“I love you.”

“Would you do anything for me?”

There was no hesitation.

“I will do anything for you. If you cannot bear to remain enslaved, I will leave Vulcan, my life, my duty, to find new skies with you.”

His heart soared. So many thoughts, dreams, the longing to live with Spock, to explore the galaxy freely, to escape to a small paradise where no one could find them—a thousand moments they could have together crowded into him and pressed into his chest to the point where he thought it would shatter. Spock would do it. He would do it all for Jim, and only Jim. He would give up everything for their love.

He chose Jim. He would give up everything for Jim.

Too little too late.

It tore at Jim. He felt like he was breaking inside, but then recalled the images and words again, the sound of his father’s voice saying “I love you” to his mother as the _Kelvin_ exploded into pieces, imagined the voice of his mother screaming giving birth and facing death as the Vulcans totally annihilated, dominated, colonized planet after planet, species after species falling under their iron rule.

Jim stood. It tore at him, so he twisted the knife in further.

“Do you trust me?”

Spock’s dark eyes like the blackness of space, like the comfort of silence, like the very love burning crashing wailing inside Jim. Just one word, and everything was his. Just one word, and Spock would give him the secret to his own destruction. Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it.

“Yes.”

 _Traitor_

“Then I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything. I’ve got contacts who can help us,” he kissed Spock and felt Spock holding back on his telepathy, giving Jim everything.

Remember. Remember what this is about. _I love you sweetheart. I love you so much._

Play the part.

“You will need access to the security codes.”

Jim watched as Spock took out his datacube. Watched as Spock inputted a sequence, took out a core, and gave it to Jim. Felt how light it was in his hands.

“Command is planning on launching a counteroffensive against the Terran Resistance fifteen days from now.”

Seven days after his wedding.

No honeymoon for the newlywed couple.

“Can you make arrangements to leave before that time?”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of everything.”

“I must leave. But I will return,” Spock kissed him.

Jim returned the kiss, controlling the edge of desperation that was spinning inside. He didn’t know—it could be the last time—the codes, Nyota would be ecstatic—if he never saw Spock again—the Vulcans would find out—they would kill him—his father’s voice—mother’s screams—Spock, don’t—

Too soon, Spock broke contact and moved to leave.

“Jim,” he breathed onto his lips. “Be careful. I will be waiting.”

One last touch, and Spock disappeared.

Jim sank to his knees, datacore clenched in his fist.

 _I love you sweetheart. I love you so much._

\--

“Do you have them?”

He threw the datacore onto the table.

Nyota picked it up, eyebrows raised. Beside her, McCoy whistled.

“You must’ve let him fuck you real good.”

Jim snarled.

“Don’t even—”

“Len, shut _up_. You did your job, Jim. Forget about this place.”

Like he could. Like he wanted to.

“You’ve given us the advantage we need. Finally,” she stared at the datacore. “We’ll win against these Vulcan bastards. We’ll finally have a free galaxy.”

“Your words’re wasted on him, Uhura. He’s pining for his pointy-eared—”

Jim launched himself at the doctor. Landed a few solid punches on that face before the crew pulled them off each other.

“Len, shut up. Go find something to do in Sickbay. Jim, get over it. In a few months, it’ll be like it never happened. Your little secret’s safe with us.”

Once a slave, always a slave. Once a traitor, always a traitor.

Once Spock’s lover, always—

“Fleet might even give you your own ship.”

His own ship. Suddenly, everything drained out of him.

“Just fucking do it, Nyota.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowed.

“Fine. Everyone, back to posts. Chapel, get Jim to a bunk, take care of him.”

Everything was a blur as the blonde nurse injected him with something, led him to one of the beat up biobeds.

He was slipping away into oblivion, falling into dark eyes, a dark pit, the silence of broken trust and betrayal. The last thing he heard before he let himself go into the blackness:

“This is Captain Uhura speaking. Everyone, battle stations. Engineers, stay on your toes. We’re warping out of this hellhole.”

\--

When the alert came that Vulcan’s security had been breached and two Terran ships were making their escape, Spock knew.

As Ang’jmizn of the _Buk_ , he was ordered to chase down the ships and destroy them.

Spock followed orders. He carried out his duty to the utmost.

His commands were crisp and clear, the gift of his human intuition and extensive insight he gained from his time with Jim guided his every move. He anticipated their movements with almost preternatural accuracy while his subordinates rapidly calculated warp trajectories, while every weapon of his ship automatically followed their targets and fired relentlessly, round after round after round.

This was his domain, this was his element. He was born to command, born to navigate the chaos of battle and firefights. Spock’s mind, his instinct, came together and he was the predator tracking his prey, he was the le-matya seeking to destroy anything that came in its path. He did not think of Jim, he did not think of the truth of the betrayal. He simply acted, fought for Vulcan as he always had and always would.

The two Terran ships were no match for the _Buk_ and the _Ket-cheleb_. Spock put his ship in perfect position to trap the larger Terran vessel, the _Coriander_. Stonn executed the maneuver beautifully, firing smoothly and efficiently, ripping holes into the vessel, exploding the warp core. Spock listened to his staff report that plasma dispersion was complete, the engine was totally ruptured, life support systems were dead, the hull compromised.

The _Enterprise_ had already gone into warp.

“Ang’jmizn Spock, do you have the trajectory of the second vessel?”

“Khart-lan Stonn, return to Vulcan. The _Buk_ has all coordinates and we are going in pursuit of the _Enterprise_.”

“Will you not need assistance?”

“Negative. Stand down.”

“Understood.”

“Dakharausu, follow that vessel. Overtake it.”

“Immediately.”

They flew into warp.

It was not easy to keep track of the vessel. The Captain of the _Enterprise_ —Nyota Uhura, he recalled—evidently had some skill. She was employing every trick at her disposal to throw the _Buk_ off her trail, but there was a reason why Spock was named the right hand of Ko-eik-te’krusu. He was the best. He surveyed battlespaces and knew how to win the efficient victory, he had practiced in his training this basic skill of stalking a single flier. And he forced Captain Uhura to make mistakes.

Her first mistake was when she attempted a Krichai maneuver. The ship’s structural integrity had been shoddy in the first place and the additional strain of dropping in and out of warp, turning and banking hard was taking its toll. Spock knew that the maneuver cost her something in engine capability. Already they were gaining, weapons rapidly firing a few shots, a few shots, a few shots, that found their target and destroyed the ship’s shields.

Her second mistake was when she attempted to fire a photon torpedo while dropping out of warp. The _Enterprise_ ’s automatic weapons systems had been disabled, its circuits gutted—Spock’s chief mishek had seen to it personally. It was obvious that the crew had managed to bring some systems back online, but the fixes hadn’t been good enough. The photon torpedo exploded a few hundred meters from the _Enterprise_ , taking more engine capability with it.

And her last mistake—the final one, Spock knew, was when she stopped the chase. A brief and vague feeling of admiration flickered in Spock, that she had decided to stand and fight. The feeling left as quickly as it came. It was a foolish move and a desperate one. Spock had seen such actions before, and not only among Terrans. There could be no hope for the survival of the ship. The _Buk_ was superior, it held the advantage in every way.

The _Enterprise_ was admirably dodging 72% of the rounds that the _Buk_ was now firing. But it was only a matter of time before that ship was another shattered hull, a collection of bodies and metal floating in space.

Spock watched, impassive, as the _Enterprise_ began to fall apart

(and in his mind was the image of Jim, of blue eyes mixed with blood, of soft limbs frozen in place, of shards of ship ripping through his stomach and the entrails spilling out, of red oozing from his nostrils, of warmth drained from his body, of pink lips turned blue, of the freeze between synapses, elbows twisted and locked, Jim’s body broken and tortured in so many ways, locked by death by slavery by circumstance

in his mind was the image of Jim, blue eyes fierce and burning with freedom, of soft limbs entwined with his, of sharp kisses into his stomach, of his smile free and unfettered, of the curve of his neck and shoulders, of the pale skin at the small of his back, of the sound of his laughter, of the look of his anger, of his gasps into Spock’s ear, of his moans and desire pulsing, of his very lifeblood and heartbeat under Spock’s hands

in his mind was the image of Jim on his knees, asking Spock if he loved him, if he trusted him, of tales of escape, of dreams of living together, of yearning for freedom, of a place where they were equals exploring the galaxy, of a place where they could meet without duty and war between them, of another life another time another place, perhaps another universe

in his mind was the image of Jim)

in his eyes was the image of the _Enterprise_ crumbling like a pillar of salt and he heard himself say

“Stop.”

The rounds continued.

“ _Kroykah_!”

All eyes stared, astonished.

“Set a course for Vulcan.”

“But Ang’jmizn, the ship will—”

“Set a course for Vulcan. We are done here. Warp 4, Dakharausu.”

They obeyed.

He did not take one last look at the _Enterprise_.

Only whispered in his mind, to the image of Jim,

“Dif-tor heh smusma, ashaya.”

They flew into warp.


	6. Act V

When he stepped off the _Buk_ , the Council Elders were waiting for him. T’Pring stood among them, Stonn at her side. Her eyes flashed with a thousand emotions.

Before a word could be said, Spock took off the shirt of his Ang’jmizn uniform, knelt, and laid it before their feet, his head bowed.

“I submit myself to thy justice.”

He felt T’Pau’s presence loom over him.

“Raise thy eyes and look thou upon me.”

He did so, angling his head precisely so that he might meet T’Pau’s eyes.

He did not expect the blow, her hand striking his face, the rings on her fingers slitting his cheek. He kept his military bearing and did not move from his position.

“ _Sviksu_!” she spat. “Thou art not worthy to bear the name Vulcan. There is no justice for traitors, only taflaya and samek-yontaya!”

Spock was silent.

“Thou hast nothing to say in defense of thy actions.”

“I am as thou seest.”

“Kroykah! Klashausu—take this e’shua to the Burning Place. Ket’lio!”

The guards grabbed his upper arms and forced him up. They stripped the purple band from his waist and used it to tie his hands behind his back, desecrating the symbol of his status and destroying what was left of his power. Spock did not resist, but he did not submit. He simply stood tall, held his head high, and met T’Pring’s gaze.

A thousand emotions were crashing under her silver facade.

The guards shoved him to make him stumble—it was a show of humiliation. He straightened himself and walked forward.

He was going to die for this. They would rape his mind. He would be able to hide nothing from them. This was the Way. This was the punishment for traitors, and he would abide it with whatever dignity he had left. He would die, his katra denied entry into the Ark, his name smeared in the pages of history, legacy disgraced, honor broken. Forever known was sviksu, the traitor.

But he would die with a light in his eyes.

Because he found, in a flash of epiphany as brilliant as the light of Jim’s smile, that he did not regret it.

He had betrayed his people, his planet, his sense of duty, and everything he held dear. He had betrayed himself, the core beliefs on which his life had been founded and the tenets on which he had built the entirety of his existence.

But he had not betrayed everything of himself. For he had loved Jim, and in choosing that love, he had found something selfish, a secret that had changed his entire world.

Jim betrayed him. Bound to his own duties and sense of obligation, he used Spock for his cause and came out the winner. Came out free.

As he was always meant to be, traversing the galaxy and touching the stars.

And that fact, more than anything, was what kept Spock when the Interrogators violated his mind over and over and over in their exacting search for vengeance.

\--

Stonn could provide no comfort.

Stonn was not Spock. He did not have the same presence as Spock, that easy elegance, the force of his intelligence, his carriage, the brilliance of his eyes. The Council and priests elected Stonn as the new Ang’jmizn, but he could never be Spock.

A thousand emotions burned inside T’Pring.

She had done it.

She had gone before the High Council and told them everything she knew. Spock was ever discreet. He gave nothing away. It was James who could not hide his love. It was James that she had seen, lurking near computer terminals, looking like someone who had been assigned a mission. James was altogether too easy to read and when she heard that Vulcan’s security codes had been compromised and two Terran vessels were making their escape, she knew what had transpired.

James, as clever and sly as he was, could never obtain the security codes. Even T’Pring did not have access to those. Spock had been given the great honor and responsibility of being one of the bearers of the keys to Vulcan after his successful campaign against Andoria. Only five others knew the codes, five whom Jim had never met and could never have the opportunity to meet.

Spock had given Jim the keys to Vulcan.

When she realized that, she had gone numb with rage, jealousy, desperation.

Why? That was the only question that burned in her mind.

What did that human have that she did not? She was T’Pring, daughter of Serwal, one of the few houses descended directly from the great warrior general Sulak. She would take her place on the Council, her mother came from a line of powerful priestesses. She and Spock were destined to bond. With him as Ang’jmizn of all of Vulcan’s forces and her as the High Councilor, they would rule the galaxy. They would bring peace and order to the chaos. It had been their childhood dream, growing together. The priests had seen their grand fate written in the stars themselves.

She loved him. Loved him with a burning passion. He commanded her attention and her world from the day they first met. T’Pring remembered nights when she and Spock would sneak out of the city walls and roam the desert hand in hand, looking up at the stars and mapping out which systems they would conquer. He had looked at her with his dark eyes and promised her that he would be by her side. Nothing could change between them.

How had everything changed? How had he grown so distant?

Was it the wars? Every campaign he came back from, Spock became more and more withdrawn. He spoke only what was necessary, he was startlingly efficient. The passion was still there—she felt it smoldering when they touched.

And how had she changed? When had she become so calculating?

The politics. Training under T’Pau and navigating the labyrinth of Vulcan politics, she learned to look sideways, speak in riddles, hide her intent. They both of them were trained to the utmost, born to become the best. In the process, they had grown apart. Dreams grew cold.

And then this human came. This rebellious, disorderly, unrestrained human who spoke too loudly, smiled too widely, offended everyone he came into contact with. This human she thought she had broken, this human that Spock was _compelled_ to buy and protect. When Spock first gave T’Pring this human as a wedding gift, she thought it was a joke. And perhaps it had been. Yet she became altogether too focused on disciplining the human, making him bear the marks of her power. And then he became the focal point of her jealousy. Still he had the audacity to look at Spock. Still he found ways to defy her and keep his name.

The human was impossible.

The human dreamed.

T’Pring knew the contents of his dreams. No one could look at him and not know. He dreamed of freedom.

Stupid slave! What did he have that she did not? Wasn’t she free? Wasn’t she in command of whole star systems? Didn’t she have the power to get rid of entire species? What did Spock see in him that she lacked? Didn’t they dream together? Didn’t they promise to rule the universe together? Weren’t they free together?

She burned with jealousy. She burned with the desire to join Spock in his campaigns, to be by his side always, to touch his mind and know him in a way that no one else could. That human took it away from her! He fell in love, and Spock fell in love with him. Spock gave him the keys to Vulcan! Spock, who placed duty above all things! Spock, who fought in fourteen campaigns and returned victorious! Spock, who belonged to _her_ , gave a human the keys to Vulcan!

They were meant for each other! It was impossible that Spock love any other.

But he did. And when she discovered that James loved Spock, that this human was her rival, jealousy, dark and desperate, raged inside her.

It consumed her, to the point where she hated Spock for his cool treatment of her while she knew, she _knew_ he was burning for Jim.

She didn’t know why she told the High Council about Spock’s betrayal. It was illogical.

And it was illogical to hope.

Yet she still hoped. For now, with James out of the way, likely dead in space...

They could start over. She could redeem him. She had the power, she had the will to do it. The Council and the priests would have to be maneuvered, but T’Pring knew their every weakness, their dark secrets. This incident could be forgotten. With the human gone, she could convince Spock to renounce James, declare his attachment to be an aberration in judgment. They could rule the galaxy once more. She would restore his power, give him back his fleets of ships, and their fate would be aligned once more.

He would remember the desert nights outside of the city, hand in hand, dark eyes looking at her as they plotted their dreams together.

She would appeal to him. He would see reason.

T’Pring gathered her robe.

“Klashausu.”

“T’Pring.”

“Escort me to the Burning Place.”

The guard opened his mouth to say something, but she made a sharp motion.

“Do not question my orders. I have commanded it.”

He bowed. Her entourage assembled within minutes.

Spock would see reason. She would redeem him.

And he would love her, because she was the only one who could.

\--

They brought him to her dressed in the sackcloth of slaves. They chained him, lest he attack. His face bore the marks of T’Pau’s rings, his legs and arms were covered with bruises and cuts.

Yet he knelt before her, posture perfect.

“My Lady,” he said, voice even. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Spock, don’t stand on ceremony with me. Rise. Look at me.”

Despite the wounds, he rose fluidly.

“I have arranged for a trial.”

He raised an eyebrow but was otherwise silent.

“The priests will judge your case.”

“There is nothing to be judged. It is already known that I gave Jim the keys to Vulcan, an offense punishable by death without trial.”

“Do not tell me of Vulcan law, Spock,” she hissed. “I know it well. I have written it!”

“Then what purpose can a trial serve?”

“Can’t you see?” T’Pring’s words were silver. “You can save yourself. Denounce this association you had with the slave—the priests are willing to pardon you. Tell them it was a mistake, vow never to make such an error again. You are our best commander, Spock. Vulcan is in need of thee.”

Spock was silent.

“I am in need of thee,” she added, softly.

T’Pring went to where Spock stood and reached for his hand. He recoiled, the shackles clattering.

“I cannot.”

“Spock, see reason—”

“I cannot. I will not,” his tone brooked no argument.

“You will die! Is that what you desire, a dishonorable death? They will execute you without mercy!”

“I will not denounce him.”

Silence reigned.

A thousand emotions.

“Why? What did he give you that I could not?”

Spock’s face softened, but he said nothing.

“I love you! I loved you from the beginning. What could he do that I cannot?”

Dark eyes and silence.

“Did he know of our dreams? Did he know we are fated? Did you tell him that?”

“I did not.”

“You wanted to share the universe with me once. You wanted to bond with me once.”

“That was the past.”

“What changed?! What did he have that I do not?!”

Silence again.

T’Pring slapped him.

“I love you. Why is that not enough? You loved me once. You told me things you never told anyone else. What did that _human_ have that I could not give to you?”

A thousand emotions, a thousand hurts.

“Where is he now? Where is your lover now? You gave him the keys to Vulcan he betrayed you! Likely he’s dead in space, or rutting with another Terran! Where is he now? What is so valuable that you will not leave him, that you prefer death and dishonor over the memory of that _slave_?!”

In front of Spock, T’Pring could never keep her silver facade.

“Why can you not love me? Is he worth so much to you that you will leave me? Are the promises we made so valueless that you cannot live for me?”

Her hands began to shake. She tried to exert control, but they shook and shook and shook.

Spock put his arms around T’Pring, the shackles dangling. She leaned into him, clung to him.

“You used to call me t’hy’la.”

He tightened his arms around her.

“I remember.”

Those words. How was it that Spock could say so little, yet say everything at the same time?

A thousand emotions, dreams, fears, hopes. A thousand memories pressing.

He loved her once. He could love her again. With time, they would build their bond again. Underneath T’Pring’s silver jealousy was hope. With time, he would forget.

“Why can’t we be t’hy’la once more?” she whispered into him.

Spock held her in place, but said nothing.

“Go in front of the priests and ask forgiveness. Forget the human. We will start over. We can continue the empire and build our dreams.”

“I cannot. I will not ask forgiveness for what I have done.”

“Spock—”

“It is not logical, but it is not something that logic may explain. T’Pring, I cannot.”

He let go.

“Why? _Why_?!”

Dark eyes that held secrets, and suddenly looking at the Vulcan standing before her, T’Pring felt she did not know him at all. That he was a stranger. Something had changed inside him and she could not reach him. He had given the keys to the slave, James Kirk, and those keys were forever lost to her.

“I am offering you _life_. I am offering you redemption. Honor. _Mercy_.”

“T’Pring, I betrayed my planet, my people, my honor, for Jim, and you say you offer me life? Do you believe the svik will ever be forgotten?”

“It will be forgotten! You will win more glory, we will clear your name. I will make sure it is never mentioned.”

“You deceive yourself. I will not live a life of shame, nor will I live a life indebted to you.”

“Have you no fear of what they will do to you?”

“I do not fear death, T’Pring.”

No, he had never feared death. He had always stood tall.

“I fear your mercy.”

Ten thousand emotions.

“Spock—!”

“Klashausu.”

They came and stood at attention despite the fact that he was stripped of all power. His voice still commanded their allegiance.

“Escort my Lady back to the palace. We are finished here.”

And she could say nothing. She could do nothing. Her words, the memories, amounted to nothing.

“My Lady T’Pring,” he held out the ta’al. “Sochya eh dif, t’hy’la.”

\--

T’Pring stands outside the temple walls.

“S’chn T’gai Spock! Thou hast betrayed of Vulcan the secrets to aid the enemy. Defend thyself!”

A thousand emotions tearing inside her, pounding against her silver facade.

“He is silent. Sviksu!”

“S’chn T’gai Spock! Thou hast deserted thy duty in the very moment of combat. Defend thyself!”

Frozen in place by duty, trapped outside the temple, captive to her destiny. If she were Kirk, if she were the impetuous slave—he would storm the walls.

“He is silent. Sviksu!”

Kirk would fling himself against the stone, no matter the irrationality or uselessness of the gesture. Where is your lover now, Spock?

“S’chn T’gai Spock! Thou hast broken faith as a traitor to Vulcan, to Council, to honor. Defend thyself!”

She is not Kirk. She is T’Pring. She cannot save Spock though she loves him, but she may still give him mercy.

“He is silent. Sviksu!”

T’Pring enters the temple, tall and silver, eyes dark with her own secrets. Stonn rises from his place to follow behind her. Perhaps there are other destinies written in the stars. But Stonn is not Spock and never will be Spock.

“S’chn T’gai Spock! We have thy fate decided! Of a traitor the fate shall be thine! Beneath the sands of the planet thou hast derided, thou a sepulcher living shall find!”

“Kroykah!”

The priests turn to her.

T’Pring stands silver. Spock looks at her, silent.

It was not written. This fate could never be written.

The eyes of the priests are on her and T’Pring stands, head held high, eyes flashing with a thousand emotions.

Kirk—the human—though a slave and utterly powerless, always stood gold.

“Councilor, thou hast no place in these proceedings. Depart. His fate has been decided.”

T’Pring stands silver. Spock stands silent.

Where is your lover now, t’hy’la?

“Kroykah! I have arranged this trial, I have a right to its proceedings. The Vulcan was to be my bondmate, and I claim those right accordingly. Hear my claim.”

“Speak, thy claim has standing.”

“Let not his sepulcher lie beneath the sands of Vulcan. Let not the taint of svik seep into our soils. Let it be in that blackness of space, the cold vacuum from which there is no escape. Let him die of a true samek-yontaya.”

She is not Kirk, just as Stonn is not Spock. But let him die free, in his beloved galaxy, among the stars he gazed upon with her and with Kirk. Let that small mercy be afforded him, instead of buried alive under the red sand. It is her last wish for him.

“It is done. He dies a traitor’s death!”

Spock is looking at her, silent He nods, ever so slightly.

Where is your lover now, Spock? What did he have that I could not give you? What force burned inside him that you lost yourself in his light, when you should have been mine?

Silver and silence, gold and unspoken goodbyes.

And when they lead him away, she whispers

“S’chn T’gai Spock. T’hy’la. Thou hast betrayed thy country, thy love, and thyself, for the memory of a human. Defend thyself.”

A thousand emotions.

Stonn offers her his arm. Before she takes it and leaves the inner sanctum of the temple, she holds an image in her mind of her and Spock, outside the city walls, pointing at the stars above.

“Dif-tor heh smusma, t’hy’la.”

\--

“He made his bed. Let him lie in it.”

\--

It is dark. Absolutely no light. And it is cold.

Spock calculates that it will be only a few hours before he is completely frozen in this tomb. It is essentially a large box. The temperature controls self destructed a few minutes ago. Air supply is still running. The object is for him to freeze to death, not suffocate. It is samek-yontaya. The cold burn.

He cannot stand up, but he is able to sit comfortably. There is enough space to accommodate four more seated Vulcans.

In his mind, Jim is free, his eyes so blue, his laugh resonant.

“Shit, it’s fucking cold in here.”

Spock freezes. He is hallucinating. The cold is affecting his ability to distinguish between reality and illusion. The probability that Jim in the sepulcher with him is—it is unthinkable. Jim must be free, he must be away from the cold of death.

Still, he can’t help but call

“Jim?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Vulcans really know how to build a death box.”

“How—? What—?”

Laughter.

“I think this is the first time I’ve heard you incoherent.”

“You are an apparition.”

“Nope.” Jim takes Spock’s cold hands in his. “I’m real.”

He is real.

He is _real_. Spock can feel his telepathy reach out to a presence so familiar, a mind that could never be replicated or reconstructed by his own imagination.

His fingers are stiff and slowly becoming numb, but against Jim’s hands, they tingle from the thrill of contact.

“Then how are you here? Why are you here?” he demands.

For Jim must be free. He must.

“The how’s kind of complicated. The why—I thought that’d be obvious. Well, I hoped.”

Silence.

Panic. Fear. He can’t see Spock’s face, can’t even see the those dark eyes in this all encompassing blackness. Jim grips Spock’s hand, wanting so much to fold himself into Spock but afraid. He betrayed this Vulcan. Spock gave him the codes and he turned them over to Nyota, his mother’s screams, father’s voice ringing in his ears.

“Spock? I swear, I—”

“I understand, Jim.”

It can’t be that easy. Nothing ever comes that easy for Jim.

“You do?”

If he were Spock, if their positions were reversed, he’s not sure he would be so forgiving.

“Yes,” Spock answers. “You are not me, Jim. I made my choices. I abide by them, and I cannot regret them.”

“You’re sure?”

“If I did not denounce you before all the priests, the High Council arrayed in all their splendor, would I turn you away now?”

Spock feels Jim move closer to him.

“Spock?”

“Yes?”

A pause. It’s as though Jim is gathering courage to say something.

“Do you still love me?”

There’s only one answer for that. Spock feels his way to Jim’s face, finds his lover’s lips and kisses them. He hears Jim sigh, a sound of relief and deep contentment.

Unspoken between them are words. Declarations.

 _I chose death. I chose the death of sviksu, rather than the abject repentance of our love. I chose you._

 _I choose death. I choose to die with you. I choose you over freedom. Because without you, can I really be free?_

They feel their way around each other. Jim nestles into Spock’s body.

“It’d be a little awkward if you didn’t. Love me, I mean. You know, with this whole buried alive in space business you Vulcans have got going here.”

There is a finality to Jim’s tone.

“I gather there is no hope for rescue.”

A pause.

“Nope, sorry. When I left the _Enterprise_ , Nyota made it clear I was on my own.”

Made it crystal clear. He doesn’t think about that exchange.

“You are remarkably accepting of this situation.”

Quiet.

“I don’t want to die,” Jim’s voice is soft. “But, I can think of worse ways to go.”

It is getting colder.

The reality of their situation sinks in like the cold seeping through their skin to the very marrow of their bones.

And suddenly, they are desperate to touch each other, to feel each other.

It is so cold.

They are desperate to taste each other one last time, before the deep freeze sets in, before everything is locked and immovable as blood slows, as the fire that burns inside them is gutted out.

The cold gets to Spock worse than Jim. Despite the movement and his desire, Spock can’t stop shivering. Violently.

They do their best to share body heat, to keep moving. Jim takes Spock’s hands and encases them in his. He lies on top of Spock, wraps himself around and covers them with their clothes.

But he can feel Spock slipping away.

 _Meld with me_ , he wills. _Meld with me and we’ll go together. Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare fucking leave me._

Spock’s hands are shaking. Fingers like ice. Barely a whisper of telepathic contact.

 _Do it_! he wills.

Willpower’s the only thing they’ve got left.

Spock, Ang’jmizn of the Vulcan Fleet, trained to the utmost in Vulcan disciplines of self control, inhales. The air is sharp in his lungs, burning with cold.

He suppresses all sensation and focuses only on Jim. Jim, who is calling to him, offering refuge in his mind.

Control. Willpower. Jim was always creating choices, making options, even in slavery, even in death.

“My mind to your mind” _my thoughts to your thoughts_

Jim is hit with a wave of cold. Spock is so cold, it’s all he can think about. His mind’s fixated on it, trapped in a temperature differential.

He wills it away. He thinks of Iowa, he thinks of Earth. Thinks of home, of cornfields and blue skies, green grass, Indian summers, sweltering humidity, rivers of water. He thinks of San Francisco, the way the city lit up on a sunny day. He thinks of all the stars he’s seen, all the systems he’s charted. He thinks of gold, of swimming in a lake under the hot sun, of beaches, wet sand. Of light reflected in waves, light reflected on canyon walls.

There’s too much water in his vision. He can feel Spock’s mind recoil at these places unfamiliar.

He wills it away. He thinks of ShiKahr, thinks of Vulcan. Thinks of Spock’s estate, the red sand, orange skies, the rock gardens, the ceremonial fire burning. Thinks of T’Kuht, the way it hung like overripe fruit in Vulcan’s sky. He thinks of the day he was taken to T’Pring as a gift, thinks of the flowing robes Spock wore, the vision of him tall and majestic. He reminds Spock of a life that once was, a life where he commanded thousands of Vulcans, directed hundreds of ships, days when he was conqueror and nothing in the universe could stop him.

Until Jim.

Spock’s thoughts, quiet like his voice and dark like his eyes.

Until Jim. Until Jim came into his life and changed everything. Life turned upside down, duty no longer sufficient to keep his existence. Honor a poor substitute for the light of Jim’s blue eyes, tradition lackluster against Jim’s kisses, his passion, his untamed spirit striving, ever striving, for freedom.

It was not that way from the beginning. Was he truly Spock’s e’shua, weaving enchantments, making Spock feel things he did not think were possible? He gave Jim the keys to Vulcan, he gave Jim everything and he could not regret it. There were days when he wanted to regret, wanted to forget, days when he was deep in space on another campaign, after a battle, watching the destruction of the enemy fleet and he wanted to leave Jim. Abandon the reckless fire burning inside him. But always he was pulled back to Vulcan. If Jim had not been on Vulcan, Spock knew he would be drawn to wherever the human was.

Human. T’Pring said that that word with such disgust. Jealousy. Her thousand emotions screaming against the silver cage she built for herself.

Jim pulls him back from that path. Brings him back to the light and warmth.

Spock can feel his body failing.

Jim pulls him back, tells him to hang on. Tells him to stay.

He will stay. He will do anything for Jim. He already has.

 _I’m coming with you when you go. I’m coming with you._

Spock will not stop him. He never could.

And in the deep cold empty, in the vast dark space, floating without destination, entombed among the stars, two men, one Terran, one Vulcan, one slave, one conqueror, bodies pressed together like hands of supplication, of prayer, of intimacy, mind joined like fingers interlaced, two traitors, one who gave up life and honor, one who gave up freedom, two men whose bodies radiated heat irrevocably, lost energy to the void surrounding them, slipped further to their fate chosen and assigned.

Walked forward into the darkness, fire burning, flickering, struggling, but walked forward, standing tall.

Two traitors, one Terran, one Vulcan, entombed among the stars, stood in each other’s light, walked forward into the darkness.

And refused to say goodbye.


End file.
